


Five Times Christian Eriksen Helped His Teammates With Their Problems

by Annapods, Arioch, dapatty, fulldaysdrive, ItsADrizzit, RsCreighton, WhiteHaru37, wingedwords (gunpowderandlove)



Series: I'm enough to drive you mad [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: 5 Times, Audio Book, Audio Format: M4B, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Best Friends, Chatting & Messaging, Embedded Audio, Gen, Lack of Communication, M/M, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 2.5-3 Hours, Pre-Relationship, Shopping, Text Messages, Tottenham Hotspur, adventures in London, antics, flirting but not flirting, helping teammates, relationship drama, teammates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-01 17:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11491314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arioch/pseuds/Arioch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty/pseuds/dapatty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulldaysdrive/pseuds/fulldaysdrive, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteHaru37/pseuds/WhiteHaru37, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowderandlove/pseuds/wingedwords
Summary: Christian Eriksen has a lot of love for his Hotspur teammates, even if it does get him caught up in their antics and drama.In which Chris just wants to ignore his feelings, Dele and Dier need to talk it out, Son Heung-min is a ridiculous human being, and everyone sends far too many text messages.





	1. Podfic

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is entirely for swearing.
> 
> Thanks from ItsADrizzit:  
> All the thanks in the world to [kaixo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo) for beta reading, digging in deep, pushing me to make this better, and many lovely hours of Tumblr messenger.
> 
> Thanks also to [Ande](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ande/pseuds/Ande) for persevering through my multiple drafts and repeated emails and inability to use Google Docs correctly.
> 
> We couldn't have done this without the both of you.
> 
> Thanks to my podfic sister [analise010](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Readbyanalise010/pseuds/Readbyanalise010) for just being you, and also for always texting me about something ridiculous while I was in the middle of recording. You're the gift that keeps on giving.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the podfic (mp3 and podbook) of all the parts. You can select music or non-music versions. You can download or stream the chapters individually if you prefer, just go to the corresponding chapter.
> 
> The music version has short interludes between each chapter and longer music at the beginning and end of the full track.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [dapatty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty/pseuds/dapatty), [RsCreighton](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton). [annapods](http://archiveofourown.org/users/annapods/pseuds/annapods), [frecklebombfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklebomb/pseuds/frecklebombfic), [fulldaysdrive](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fulldaysdrive/pseuds/fulldaysdrive), [Arioch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Arioch/pseuds/Arioch), and [wingedwords](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowderandlove/pseuds/wingedwords) for eagerly jumping in to participate in this ridiculous project of ours with little to no preparation or context. This podfic is SO MUCH BETTER because of all of you and I'm so glad I got to work with you all. 
> 
> Thanks to [klb](http://archiveofourown.org/users/klb/pseuds/klb) for all your patience, help, guidance, and tracking down all these wonderful people to create this with us. We truly appreciate all you did.

 

  
Cover art by: [ItsADrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit)

**Read by** : [ItsADrizzit, ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit)[dapatty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty/pseuds/dapatty)[WhiteHaru37](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteHaru37/pseuds/WhiteHaru37), [RsCreighton. ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)[annapods](http://archiveofourown.org/users/annapods/pseuds/annapods), [frecklebombfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklebomb/pseuds/frecklebombfic), [fulldaysdrive](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fulldaysdrive/pseuds/fulldaysdrive), [Arioch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Arioch/pseuds/Arioch), and [wingedwords](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowderandlove/pseuds/wingedwords)

**Length** : 02:49:58

**Right click and save as:**  
[mp3 w/ music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/Five%20Times%20Christian%20Eriksen%20Helped%20His%20Teammates%20with%20Their%20Problems%20\(with%20music\).mp3) | [mp3 w/o music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/Five%20Times%20Christian%20Eriksen%20Helped%20His%20Teammates%20with%20Their%20Problems%20\(without%20music\).mp3)

**Right click and save as:**  
[m4b w/ music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/Football%20RPF_Five%20Times%20Christian%20Eriksen%20Helped%20His%20Teammates%20with%20Their%20Problems%20\(with%20Music\).m4b) | [m4b w/o music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/Football%20RPF_Five%20Times%20Christian%20Eriksen%20Helped%20His%20Teammates%20with%20Their%20Problems%20\(without%20Music\).m4b)

streaming with music 

streaming without music 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a more hilarious than usual outtakes file featuring ItsADrizzit and WhiteHaru37 trying to be serious while crammed together in a hot, tiny closet, but it's not put together yet. Hopefully one day it will make it on here, but if you want it let me know and I'll send you a link.


	2. Podfic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent's struggling to adjust. Chris is helping him figure things out. He might also be slightly weak versus Vincent's face.
> 
> _“PKs against lower league sides that you shove me in front of because you’ve already scored twice on the day and the poor Dutchie can’t manage a goal of his own don’t count."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a ship in here if you squint at it. Chris is still in vehement denial over it and is trying to convice himself that really he just hates it when Vincent looks sad. And loves it when he looks happy. And really enjoys hugs.
> 
> Inspired by my feelings; and also [this article](http://www.skysports.com/football/news/11675/10549557/tottenham-striker-vincent-janssen-is-proper-english-says-christian-eriksen).
> 
> Trust me...there's another fic about this relationship in me somewhere.
> 
> In which former Eredivisie players stick together and bro it up with a lot of hugs and I try desperately to describe facial expressions.

 

  
Cover art by: [ItsADrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit)

**Read by** : [ItsADrizzit, ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit)[dapatty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty/pseuds/dapatty), and[WhiteHaru37](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteHaru37/pseuds/WhiteHaru37)

**Length** : 00:34:11

  
**Right click and save as:**  
[mp3 w/ music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/1_Vincent_Music.mp3) | [mp3 w/o music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/1_Vincent_NoMusic.mp3)

streaming with music 

streaming without music 

“ _Godverdamme, FUCK OFF!_ ” Vincent’s scream cut through the whistles and cheers of the crowd as the ball clanged off the goalpost. Chris lunged to his left, but before he could take a step, Coco fired a volley off the rebound, the Leverkusen keeper tipping the shot over the bar. As the referee blew the play dead, Chris glanced towards Vincent, knowing full well his friend’s face would be full of frustration and pain. Sure enough, Vincent stood in the centre of the box with both hands atop his head, his eyes slammed shut and his lips pressed into thin lines. The bright lights overhead turned Vincent’s face pale and accentuated the dark circles that had started to form beneath his eyes.

Vincent had one of those faces that somehow made you feel every emotion along with him. From their first day together on the pitch, Chris had found himself caught up in every expression that crossed Vincent’s face—the exuberance of Vincent’s smile as he fell into easy camaraderie with his teammates and the unabashed sense of joy that emanated from Vincent every time he backed up a defender then pivoted around to pick up one of Chris’s perfectly placed crosses. The problem, however, was that Chris didn’t just share the positive emotions.

His chest tightened every time Vincent squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled a shot wide. Chris found himself clenching his fingers into fists, his fingernails biting into his palms in response to Vincent’s wide, pleading eyes as a perfect strike fell into the waiting arms of the goalkeeper. After the two had spent the past few months bonding over the Eredivisie, life in the Netherlands, and their shared opinion that Nike boots were superior to all others, Chris’s heart hurt whenever Vincent turned to him with a look of sheer anguish after he sent one of Chris’s passes flying wide of the net.

Looking at Vincent now, Chris felt a gnawing helplessness carving out a pit in his stomach.

Chris prided himself on his ability to help his teammates out of most difficult situations, but here he was helpless. He could angle in pass after pass and do his absolute best to drop a perfect cross to Vincent’s feet, but try as he might he couldn’t make Vincent’s strikes end up in the back of the net. No one could, it seemed.

Coco lay sprawling in the centre of the box following his shot, his momentum having thrown him off balance and sending him tumbling to the ground. He laid there for a few seconds, catching his breath before slowly climbing to his feet. Taking advantage of this short break in play, Chris threw an arm around Vincent’s shoulder pulling him close and pressing his mouth to Vincent’s ear. “Hang in there, yeah. That was a really good go that time. Another centimetre and the keeper had no hope.”

Vincent shook his head and offered a wry smile as he pulled away from Chris’s embrace. “Another miss is another miss. Might as well have been a kilometre.”

 

 

In the dressing room after the match the mood was cautiously optimistic. Dele, Eric, and Danny stood together in the corner, laughing and joking with each other. Mousa and Jan stood together with the young defenders, Jan gesturing emphatically as the others looked on seriously. Chris slid into the space beside Vincent on the bench, raising his voice slightly to be heard above the din. “Solid match, yeah? Draw on the road’s not bad.”

Vincent rolled his eyes and shook his head. “For the rest of you, maybe. I played like balls.”

The scowl threatened to return. Chris tried to head it off by ruffling Vincent’s hair and offering what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Not quite. You’re doing well,” he said, sliding from English into Dutch.

“Bullshit,” Vincent responded in English before switching to Dutch himself. “What’s the stunning record for Tottenham’s big summer signing so far? Fifteen shots. How many goals? None.”

“Excuse me? One. And an assist against 'Borough.”

“PKs against lower league sides that you shove me in front of because you’ve already scored twice on the day and the poor Dutchie can’t manage a goal of his own don’t count.”

Chris laughed and gave him a playful shove. “Bastard. I gave up a hat-trick letting you take that kick.”

“Right. Your suffering knows no bounds, I’m sure. Meanwhile I can’t find the net with a map.”

Chris frowned. “It’s not nearly as bad as all that.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re one of the team’s darlings. At AZ it was me scoring the goals and giving interviews and appearances. It was my name the fans were chanting throughout the stadium. Now the only reason anyone says my name is to talk about what a disappointment I am filling in for Harry and how everyone else is going to have to step up and help out to make up for my failings.”

Vincent bent his head and fisted his hand in his hair, his shoulders slumped. “I wish I could forget what it was like to be the team’s hero. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so shit about leaving behind my home and a great team and a good life to finally play in the league I’d dreamed of since I was a child only to fall flat on my face. Sometimes, literally.”

“Vince.” Chris’s voice softened as he reached over and gathered Vincent’s slumped form into a clumsy sideways hug, the wooden dressing room bench making it uncomfortable. “Listen. Adjusting takes time for all of us. You’ve been in England for what, two months? I’ve been here for three years, and Harry and Dele have been playing English football their whole lives. You can’t really make a comparison. You’ve got talent. You know how to score. Trust me, you’ll figure out the system and be putting shots past everyone before you know it.”

Vincent leaned into Chris’s hug, his head dropping to Chris’s shoulder, his need for physical comfort overwhelming any awkwardness the intimacy might otherwise cause. Chris trained his eyes on the floor, not trusting himself to hold the conversation together if he let himself take in the inevitable pain in his friend’s eyes.

After a few moments, Vincent straightened up and blew his breath out in a rush. “If only, ‘ _give me some time to figure it out_ ’ worked as a defense when the media, the fans, and even the coaching staff are talking about how you’re the biggest waste of money the club has ever managed. I feel like _I’m being lived_ 1, Chris, and unless I can start figuring out how to score again I don’t really see things getting better anytime soon. I can score on the training pitch. I can score for my country. On field for my club, all I’ve proven is that I’m an enormous disappointment.” He dropped his head into his hands.

Chris slid his hand down to rest on the small of Vincent’s back, but was still careful to focus on the floor at his feet. This was about Vincent’s feelings, not his, and it wasn’t going to help either of them if Chris let himself get emotional too.

“I don’t know what else to say. It just…takes time. What you can’t afford to do during that time is start doubting yourself. What’s your weird Dutch saying, ’ _Row with the oars you have?’_ I believe in you. Hell, the whole team believes in you. And the gaffer. Don’t worry about the fans or the media or any of it. Just keep working hard and pretty soon the whole world will see what we all get to watch on the practice pitch every day.”

An idea suddenly burst into his mind and he jumped to his feet and clapped his hands together as he spun to face Vincent, grinning and gesturing wildly as he spoke. “Tell you what, we’ll work on it together. Extra drills after practice. I’ll get the guys to help out. Jan and Toby know both leagues just as well as I do, maybe better. Same with Vorm. And Mousa made the jump from AZ to Fulham. I’m sure I can get them to help us train a bit. Certainly they’d be glad to offer their perspectives on making the jump. We’re a team, Vincent. More than a team; a family. We’ll all work on this together and you’ll be scoring league goals before you know it. You’ll see.”

Vincent shook his head, but he allowed Chris to take his hand and pull him to his feet. “I suppose it can’t be much worse than it is now. If it doesn’t work out, maybe I can convince the club to sell me back to Holland for discount rates.”

 

 

On the coach to the airport, Chris made his way toward the back and dropped into the empty seat in front of Jan, spinning around and kneeling on the seat with his head peering over the headrest.

Jan carefully lowered his book to his lap, then arched an eyebrow at Chris and, after a second, pulled at his earbuds. “Chris?”

“I was…wondering if you could help me out with something, actually.”

Jan’s eyebrow somehow arched higher. “You’re asking for my help? Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

“It’s not technically for me. It’s for Vince. I’m just facilitating.”

Jan flashed Chris a nod and a knowing smile. “Right. For Vince. Of course.”

Chris ignored his friend's look, keeping his voice matter-of-fact. This was professional concern for a struggling teammate. Nothing more. No matter what Jan had to say about it.

“So, here’s the thing. You know how Vince has been struggling a bit lately?”

Jan puffed his cheeks out as he nodded slowly. Vincent’s frustrations at his slow start in the Prem were certainly no secret around the dressing room.

“Right. Of course. Anyway, we were talking earlier and I really think he just needs a little confidence boost. Some help adjusting to a new style of play and working out the nuances of attacking here versus there, you know?”

“He’ll get it in time. It takes everyone a while to adjust.”

“That’s exactly what I told him. But I think the pressure’s really getting to him. So I was hoping maybe you could help me work with him a bit in training. Stay after or show up early if you can. We can make it a sort of group effort. Everyone who made the jump from Holland to England. Reassure him about how long it took us to adjust and how weird and hard it could be and how we managed it. Run some drills. You and Mousa can play defense, we’ll get Michel in goal. Toby can help if he’s around and fit enough.”

Jan shrugged, the expression on his face impassive. “It would be better if Toby wasn’t hurt. It’s harder to get the defense right when it’s just me. But, sure. I’m always glad to help a teammate and we need Vince in form now that Harry’s out. Won’t hurt anyway. I can’t speak for the others, but I’m in. Besides. It's past time someone intervened and stopped trusting you to handle things with Vince on your own.”

Chris ignored that last remark and reached around the headrest for a fist bump. “Fantastic. Thanks, you’re a gem. Off to find Michel.”

 

 

For the next week at training, Chris made a special effort to work with Vincent, passing him the ball at every opportunity, even if Sonny or Dele were open. Chris knew he shouldn’t be focusing on helping Vincent to the exclusion of the others, but he wasn’t concerned about Dele’s ability to pick up a cross or Sonny’s movement toward the ball. Vincent simply needed more work, especially now that he was being asked to slot in for Harry.

Every night, he stayed late on the training field with Vincent, Jan, Mousa, Michel, and Toby, working on passing and movement on and off the ball as Michel held the net and Jan and Moussa pressed forward in defense while Toby coached Vincent through the press from the sidelines.

“Vince!” Chris yelled as he fired a cross in the striker’s direction.

Vincent had his back to the goal, as was his style, and was using his size to press backward into Jan, trying to back the defender down and create space. He spun around at Chris’s yell, but the ball sailed past him and bounced away to Mousa who dribbled it down the field toward the opposite goal.

“Ugh, dammit. Sorry Chris,” Vincent yelled in Dutch, holding a hand up in apology.

“No worries,” Chris replied, “Just focus less on backing the defender down and more on angling yourself toward the goal. I think what you’re doing will work if someone can slip through the hole, but for now you’re the sole striker, so you’ll need to work more on pushing forward to intercept the cross.”

“Remember,” Toby called from his chair on the side of the pitch. “You’ll have a second defender closing in, so even if you push one of them back you’ll still run into problems once you have to turn the cross. Liverpool will catch you on the counter most times if you don’t watch.”

Vincent puffed out his cheeks as he slowly blew out a breath, traces of frustration creeping into his face. They’d been working at this for the better part of an hour, on top of their regular training, and Chris knew Vincent was feeling the pressure to finally get on the end of a cross so they could all go home. Chris flashed him an encouraging smile and rested a hand lightly on Vincent’s arm. “Hey,” he said in quiet Dutch, “we’ll get there. One more round, okay?”

Vincent nodded. “Sure. Once more, but even if I don’t get it we should call it a night. It’s getting late and I feel bad keeping you all here.”

“No one’s here who doesn’t want to be, I assure you.”

“Still…” Vincent’s voice trailed off with a shake of his head.

Chris slapped him on the back before straightening up and pulling his hand away. “Won’t matter, because you’re going to get it this time anyway. Are we watching the Bournemouth film later?”

“I’m sure you have better things to do this evening.”

Chris shrugged. “Not really. I cleared my week so I could help out.”

Vincent fixed Chris with a look and started to protest, but Chris backed away, making a circling motion in the air with one finger and yelled down the field to the rest of their impromptu training group.

“Reset. Let’s run it again. Vince, keep your head up this time. I’ll try to give you a bit more warning before the cross.”

 

 

After they’d finished Chris raced through his shower then stopped by the team restaurant, picking up the two packaged meals the chefs had left for Vincent and for him and intercepted Vincent in the hallway outside the team room.

“Here,” he said, shoving the box labeled with Vincent’s name towards him. “You still up for some film?”

Vincent gave a small laugh. “We’ve already been here hours longer than anyone else and now you want to spend an evening in the training centre watching film? I don’t know about you, but that hardly sounds like a riveting evening.”

Chris shrugged. “I feel like it will help to have the visual as we try to break down the defense.”

Vincent groaned. “Chris, we’ve been here since breakfast and it’s well past dinner. I understand that it’s not out of the ordinary to basically live here, but I have a really fantastic couch and I haven’t been spending nearly as much time with it as I’d like to. Can this at least wait until tomorrow?”

Chris pursed his lips. Vincent’s request wasn’t unreasonable, they had put in an even longer day than yesterday, but the match against Bournemouth was the day after tomorrow and he needed to help Vincent make a plan against Liverpool and Leicester all in the next ten days.

“It really needs to be today if we’re doing it. That way we can have an early night tomorrow. Take it easy and come to the match on Saturday fresh.”

Vincent tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling in thought for a few moments.

“Fine. We’ll watch the film. But…we’re watching it at my place. I need a break from this place for a few hours.”

Chris frowned. Not only would watching the film at Vincent’s place mean extra driving in London traffic, it would also mean hours alone on a couch with Vincent, and Chris wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Chris still didn’t know what this thing he might or might not be starting to feel for Vincent was, but he definitely wasn’t ready to confront it yet. Extra time alone with Vincent in the training centre was one thing; spending time at his place on his allegedly fantastic couch was another.

Chris’s face must have betrayed his hesitance because Vincent’s interrupted his thoughts.

“Right. You hate driving in London, don’t you? It’s fine. I’ll drive.”

“Oh…I…umm.” Chris stammered, dropping his eyes to the floor. “That’s…listen, don’t worry about it. You don’t exactly live close to here and then you’d have to bring me back for my car. You’re right, we can just…do this some other time.”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t mind. You’re right. It would be better to do this today. I can just drive you home when we’re done and then swing by and pick you up again tomorrow. Or, you can stay over. I have an extra room. Or, you know, the fantastic couch.”

Chris felt his eyes widen and desperately willed the hot flush to stop creeping into his cheeks. This was nothing, he told himself. One teammate inviting another to his house. He’d been to the homes of many of his teammates and it had never been awkward. Why was he trying to make this weird?

Chris tried to keep his voice even, but it came out in a sort of choked mumble despite his best efforts. “No…that’s…I don’t want to put you out.”

Vincent dropped a hand to his shoulder, making Chris’s entire body tense automatically. He took some deep breaths and tried to calm himself down. Perfectly innocent. Nothing awkward.

He’d just managed to get himself under control when he caught a flash of dark blue at the other end of the corridor and looked up.

“Jan!” He called out, and he hoped he didn’t sound as excited to see any other person right now as he thought he did.

Jan stopped, then headed toward them. “Chris? I thought you two would have been long gone by now.”

Chris straightened up and met Jan’s eyes with a casual smile. He knew he wasn’t fooling Jan. The two had known each other long enough that Jan would have been able to sense Chris’ tension even from halfway down the corridor.

“We’re off to Vincent’s to watch film of Bournemouth. You want to come with? I’d love your opinion on the defense.”

Jan flashed Chris the amused smirk that Chris had long since learned meant his friend was not going to save Chris from whatever situation he’d gotten himself in. Great. Why couldn’t Toby or Mousa have been the one who wandered by? They at least had some sympathy for his situation.

“Sorry. Plans tonight. You’ll be fine without me. Their defenders are terrible in the air and as long as you come at them strong like we’ve been practicing you can probably back them down.”

He gave a small wave and flashed Chris another grin as he turned and headed back the way he came.

Vincent smiled at Chris as he turned to follow Jan down the quiet corridor toward the car park. “Let’s go. My couch is calling.”

 

 

When the League Cup match against Liverpool rolled around and Vincent got the start at forward, Chris rewarded him with a smile and a playful elbow in the ribs as they left the dressing room to head onto the pitch for pre-match warmups. “You ready?”

Vincent flashed a grin, but Chris could see the worry hidden in the subtle way his eyes flashed and the tension at the corners of his mouth. “After spending every waking moment this week getting ready I rather think I ought to be. I just wish I had you out there with me. It’s different when I have to post up on a cross that’s not coming straight to my feet.”

Chris pulled Vincent in for a quick hug before they jogged onto the field after their teammates. “I’ll be the one on the bench cheering the loudest after you score, I guarantee it. Remember. I believe in you. We all believe in you.”

 

 

Chris smiled to himself from his place on the reserves’ bench next to Jan. Vincent won the first corner of the match in the first minute, shielding the ball with a strong body block that forced the Liverpool defender to tap the ball out of bounds.

“Yes! Just like we practiced.” Chris said, reaching out to clench his hand around Jan’s forearm. "Vince just backed him down. No chance!”

Chris leaned forward and grinned over at Jan, who nodded and returned Chris’s smile with a teasing shake of his head before they both turned back towards the field and shouted in unison, “Way to go Vince! Keep playing your game! Use your strength!”

Not long after, however, the tide started to shift. Sturridge scored in the ninth minute. Two minutes later he capitalised on a counter-attack and forced Vorm into making a diving save to prevent a second goal. The Anfield crowd roared to life as Liverpool set up for the corner, and Chris leaned forward in his seat, his hands gripping the sides of his chair.

Encouraging shouts and whistles from the crowd turned to groans as the Spurs’ defenders cleared the ball to the midfield. The groans of the crowd surrounded Chris as Winksy chested the ball down and slid a pass in toward Vincent, the lone striker on the Spurs side of the pitch. Vincent raced forward to grab an advantage on the Liverpool defense.

Chris’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the sides of his chair, but he slowly released his hold as the assistant referee raised his flag to signal offside. Annoyed, Vincent threw his hands in the air, but thankfully his face showed no hint of the frustrated grimace.

“Ahh! So, close! He, just went a half-step early,” Jan clapped his hands together in frustration for his friend.

“It’s okay. I think it’s okay. He’s not making his ‘why does this keep happening to me?’ face. His head is still in the match.”

Jan nodded and shouted towards Vincent, “Good run! Keep at them!”

Chris echoed, “Keep attacking! You got this!”

Despite the early promise of the match, Chris didn’t have to wait long to see the familiar pained expression, as Vincent sent a promising header high on a set piece and then immediately had his next attempt saved by Mignolet. As they headed into the dressing room at the half, Chris jogged to catch up with Vincent and caught him with an arm around the shoulders.

“You look great out there.”

“Sure, if by great you mean more of the same. Apparently I can only put a set piece in the back of the net if you kick it directly to my head and Jan takes it easy on me as the sole defender.”

“I resent the implication that I ever take it easy on anyone.” Jan chimed in as he pulled up on Vincent’s other side.

Vincent ignored him. “I appreciate the extra hours you’ve both put in this week, don’t get me wrong, but when you don’t have it, you don’t have it.”

Vincent’s shirt was damp beneath Chris’s arm and he could feel the heat radiating off Vincent’s body, the change in temperature stark against the crisp coolness of the English fall. Chris pulled Vincent in a little closer, keeping his voice even as he spoke into Vincent’s ear. “You won a corner, and you had a couple good chances on goal. Honestly, you look like a different player than the one we saw at the weekend against Bournemouth.”

“Great,” Vincent said, pulling away from Chris and raising his voice to be heard over the music now blasting from the stadium PA. “I’m still not helping us win.”

Chris turned imploring eyes at Jan as Vincent ran ahead of the pair into the tunnel, but Jan just shrugged and jogged after him.

 

 

The second half of the match started out uneventful for Spurs.

Chris kept his eyes trained on Vincent as he pushed forward. He turned his back to the net, and tried to create openings for his teammates, using his strength and playing his game instead of letting Liverpool suck him into their counter-press, just the way they’d all worked on, but none of the Spurs’ midfielders were able to slide through the channels. Chris slumped in his chair as Vincent grew more and more frustrated and Liverpool pushed back to take definitive control of the match. Every time Vincent pushed forward, the Liverpool defenders slid around him and tapped the ball away and down the field.

Vincent’s face had returned to its permanently fixed frown sometime after Sturridge scored again in the sixty-fourth minute, and even Chris had to admit that things weren’t shaping up all that well for Vincent’s triumphant entrance onto the stage of English football. Still, it wasn’t as though anyone in a Spurs’ kit was looking like they knew the first thing about football in this match. Not that he thought Vincent would take that as a consolation. For Vincent, today was about proving he could help the team win, and Chris knew it wouldn’t matter to his friend that the rest of the team hadn’t exactly been trying to help themselves out.

Chris had slid even further down in his chair, his head leaned back against the headrest as he stared up at the roof of the Anfield main stand, but he bolted upright as the stadium erupted into chaos. The Anfield crowd booing and shouting down in a wall of angry noise that pressed in on Chris from all sides. Beside him on the bench, Sonny was flailing his arms wildly and to his other side the usually stoic Jan was on his feet, shouting and pointing toward the field.

Chris followed to where Jan was gesturing and saw Coco sprawled on the ground in front of the Liverpool net, several players from both teams as well as the official standing over him. The Liverpool players were pleading with the ref while his Spurs teammates screamed and pointed toward a spot inside the box.

He hadn’t seen what had happened, but from the reactions going on around him he was guessing Coco had been fouled. Chris felt his eyes widen as he leaned forward in his seat, waiting for the official to make the call. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as the official pointed to the spot, indicating a penalty kick, making the Anfield crowd once more explode into a wall of angry noise. This wasn’t the league goal from open play that Vincent thought he needed, but if Vincent could bring the team back into the match by scoring this penalty it might at least quiet the critics long enough for him to regain some confidence until the league goal did come.

Chris bit his lip and clenched his hands into fists as he watched Vincent stand over the ball then glance toward Coco to take. Sure, Coco had drawn the foul, but Vincent was the striker. He should be the one to take this kick. Still, Vincent’s confidence was at an all-time low and Coco possessed a silver tongue when it came to talking his teammates into letting him take set pieces.

He leaped to his feet and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Vince!” He yelled toward Vincent in Dutch at full voice, hoping like hell the familiar language would help the striker pick out Chris’s words amid the noise of the stadium and the chaos of the pitch. “Vince, it’s yours. Take it. You can do it. I believe in you.”

It might have been his imagination, but Chris thought he saw Vincent flick a glance in the direction of the bench just before he shook his head and stepped in front of Lamela to stand on the spot. Chris sucked in a breath and held it as he watched Vincent count his steps back and stare down the ball. He thought his lungs might explode as he waited out the ages it took for Vincent to run up and strike, but his breath rushed out of him in a burst as his eyes tracked the ball past a diving Mignolet and into the back of the net.

Chris leaped into the air on instinct, fist held high, then high-fived Sonny and wrapped Jan in a bear hug. To his left, Chris heard the collective cheer rise from the travelling Spurs supporters. Pulling away from Jan, Chris glanced toward the field to see Vincent rushing toward the Spurs bench, fist in the air, pained grimace now replaced by a wide grin that Chris felt with his entire body. Chris pushed out of his chair and raced to the touchline to meet Vincent, spreading his arms wide. The two arrived at nearly the same time, and Vincent welcomed Chris into a full body hug, lifting Chris into the air as the two screamed together as one. The chants of the Spurs supporters echoed around them as their teammates arrived to join in the collective hug, pressing Chris tighter against Vincent and surrounding him in jubilant shouts.

 

 

“Still no league goals. And I still haven’t scored from open play.” Vincent said later as he settled into his seat next to Chris on the plane back to London.

“It’ll come. Until then we keep working. Just like this week. We’ll keep drilling the set pieces, keep analysing match footage and finding holes. And in the matches, it’s you and me. You get open, I’ll get you the ball, just like we worked on.” Chris grinned and punched Vincent in the arm. “Before you know it, you’ll be outscoring Harry. And whatever happens, you know you’re taking all the PKs from now on, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Vincent says "I'm being lived", which I've been told isn't an expression most L1 English speakers understand. In Dutch, the expression is _Ik word geleefd_. It essentially means you're being lived by life instead of living your life. For example: "I have no life of my own" or "my life is so busy I don't have time for myself." Here Vincent is saying it because he feels overwhelmed by life in England and all the training and all the things he's having to do to try and fit in and score goals, especially when all that work still doesn't seem to be paying off.


	3. Dele

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations with Dele are absurd, Dele's problems are ridiculous, and Chris has no idea how to deal with other people's relationships. 
> 
>  _“You’re from Europe.”_  
>  “You’re _from Europe.”_  
>  _“No, yeah, mate, but you’re from like, Europe, Europe.”_

 

  
Cover art by: [ItsADrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit)

**Read by** : [ItsADrizzit, ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit)[rose, and ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)[annapods](http://archiveofourown.org/users/annapods/pseuds/annapods)

**Length** : 00:16:38

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streaming with music 

streaming without music 

Chris ignored the loud, shouting voices as he slipped back into the Enfield player lounge to retrieve his mobile, which had been forgotten on a table when he’d been called away to mediate a friendly wager between Ben and Kieran over who had the better dance moves.

He’d heard the shouting—Dele, Harry, and Eric from the sounds of things—well down the hallway, but those three were always up to antics of some sort, so he thought nothing of it until he turned into the room and saw the trio grouped in the corner. Eric had his arms folded across his chest, a look of exasperation on his face as Dele, arms outstretched with his palms up, shouted toward him. For his part, Harry nonchalantly leaned against the wall, positioned perhaps a bit closer to Dele than he ought to be, his eyes flicking between the two.

“Eric!” Dele was shouting, one hand waving in Eric’s direction to punctuate each word he spoke. “Why are we always having this discussion?”

“Because you keep bringing it up?” Eric suggested, his face a mask of annoyance and incredulity.

Chris frowned as he edged forward into the room, sliding toward the wall farthest from the trio. The growing uneasiness between Dele and Eric had been the topic of a lot of hushed conversation around the dressing room, but Chris had been doing his best to stay out of it and let the two work things out on their own.

If anything, once their tensions spilled onto the pitch the gaffer would intervene for the sake of the team.

Eric shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Del-boy. Think what you want. All I said was I was hoping to chat with some mates in Lisbon tonight.”

“Tonight. Last night. Tomorrow night. Every night. Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if you’re lining up a shag on the side.” Dele said, shaking his head.

Chris crept closer to his phone, trying to stay as out of sight as possible in the bright, open space. This was heading toward a private conversation; territory that he did not need to be involved in.

Eric’s eyes flashed. “Dele. That is not fair. Or,” he glanced around the room and lowered his voice, “even a little bit appropriate.”

Dele shrugged, and opened his mouth to counter, but before he could speak Harry pushed himself away from the wall and stepped still closer to Dele, ignoring the glare that Eric flashed in his direction as he reflexively moved himself closer to Dele’s other side.

“Lads.” Harry said, putting one hand on each man’s shoulder. “Eric’s right. This isn’t the time or the place for this discussion.”

“Right.” Eric said, shoving Harry’s hand off his shoulder and glaring at the hand resting on Dele. “Which is why we should be doing this at home.” He turned and gave the two a pointed look. “Privately.”

Dele rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Eric. Fine. But if we’re staying in tonight can you at least agree to stay off your phone and actually spend some time with me for once?”

“I don’t know, can _you_?” Eric flicked a glance in Harry’s direction.

“Eric…” Dele started, but Eric was already stomping toward the door.

“I’ll leave you two to say your goodbyes then. Five minutes. I’ll meet you at the car.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dele yelled after him, not bothering to keep the sarcastic edge out of his voice. “Why don’t you just see if your mates are around for a quick chat while you wait.”

Chris finished his slow creep behind the pair, trying to look nonchalant as he watched Dele twist himself around to track Eric out the door and then swivel back to face Harry, who wrapped Dele in a massive hug, whispering something low that Chris couldn’t pick up before Dele pushed him back, shaking his head.

“No, H. It’s…look, just…go home to Kate, yeah? I’ll catch Eric up and we’ll get it sorted. No worries, yeah.” He grinned, then reached over to Harry to begin their secret handshake on their way toward the door.

Chris turned away from the pair, using their distraction to cover the remaining distance to his phone. He seized it, then dropped into the nearest chair and slouched low, hoping that somehow he’d remained undetected.

The last thing anyone needed was to get caught up in Eric and Dele’s drama, and since, for some reason, Chris was the one the entire team turned to for advice, he had no doubt that the moment they knew that he knew, he’d be immediately pulled in. He glanced behind him and saw that Harry and Dele were nearly to the door. Good. He’d wait a few minutes after the two had left, then head home himself.

“Chris! Hey mate. You got a minute?”

Chris nearly dropped his phone as Dele’s voice boomed from practically behind him. He swallowed a sigh, then stood up and turned to face Dele. So much for staying out of it. “Yeah. What’s up?”

“You know about Portugal, right?”

Chris narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Portugal. You know about Portugal, right?”

“Why would I know anything about Portugal?”

Dele shrugged. “You’re from Europe.”

“ _You’re_ from Europe.”

“No, yeah, mate, but you’re from like, Europe, Europe.”

Chris sucked in a breath, then puffed out his cheeks as he slowly let it out. Dele couldn’t be serious, could he? Chris shook his head as he thought about how yeah, actually, he probably was. He supposed he’d have to spell things out a bit more if he was going to bring them both through the absurdity of this conversation to the other side.

“I’m one hundred percent sure that England is closer to Portugal than Denmark is. Besides, _you’ve_ been to Portugal. Probably more than I have. Dele, what is this about?”

Dele put a hand on Chris’s arm. “So. Here’s the thing. Eric’s been proper maudy lately. I mean, more than usual. Every time H and I ask him out with us he just tells us to go ahead, and then I get home and he’s chatting online with some mate or other in Portugal or trying to find somewhere to watch Portuguese footy on the internet. And whenever H comes ‘round for FIFA or just whatever, Eric is either trying to shove H off or else he’s acting like he’s good but after five minutes he’s down on the other end of the sofa on FaceTime talking in Portuguese and laughing with his mates until he’s saying he’s knackered and off to bed. Then I come to bed and he’s just laying there with his laptop listening to terrible music and watching Sporting matches. And he scrapped his entire winning FIFA season to start over with Sporting.”

Chris narrowed his eyes at Dele. He really didn’t see how any of this had anything to do with him. “Right. So…Eric misses Portugal. I guess…What did Eric say about it?”

Dele stared at the floor, kicking at the bottom of Chris’s recently vacated chair with the toe of one bright white trainer. “It’s…um. Sort of…complicated right now. Me and Eric. So…”

Chris blew out a slow breath. He was meant to be staying out of this and relationship issues were completely not his area of expertise, but this sounded like it was worse than he’d originally thought.

“I mean, do you know what brought this on? Did something happen or…?” Chris trailed off, hoping if he just let Dele get things out in the open whatever was going on would somehow sort itself out.

“See, that’s the thing,” Dele said. “Whatever’s going on he won’t talk to me about it. Every time I try to ask him what’s wrong he blows me off or starts up with some rubbish about how central defense is hard and how shit he is at it. Which, whatever. It’s just that he puts all this pressure on himself and then he doesn’t live up to his high expectations and he takes it all on himself. I don’t know how many times I can tell him to allow it, ‘cause everyone thinks he’s doing fine. Whenever I try he just whinges about how he wants to play centre mid but he’s being phased out, which is complete rubbish, because he’s starting every match. I tried telling him, but he didn’t want to hear that either.”

Chris started to point out Dele’s incredible levels of insensitivity about the feelings of someone he tended to smother in adoring glances when he thought no one was looking, but stopped himself short and motioned for Dele to continue.

“Right. So if he’s not going to talk to me about it that leaves it on me to sort this myself, yeah? Because,” Dele paused and chewed at his lower lip for a few seconds before continuing, “Because I feel like he’s this whole different person lately and…and I really miss him. The way he used to be. Bantz and laughs and just…being together, you know?”

Dele resumed his kicking at the chair, his head bent low, his downturned face set in a contemplative frown.

“Like, I keep trying to get him to order in some Nando’s because that usually cheers him up, but he just shrugs and gives me a ‘sure, Del, ‘whatever you want is fine’ then goes back to his phone. It’s all about his mates in Lisbon and what’s going on at Sporting. And now it’s all ‘on our next break I was thinking of hols in Lisbon’ and talking about taking a flight down to Southampton to see his old Sporting mates for a few days if he gets a chance. He won’t do Power League with me and H, but he wants to be in Southampton? There is literally nothing to do in Southampton.”

Chris pressed his fist to his forehead and closed his eyes in thought for a few moments. He wished he had Eric’s side of things. Dele’s presumptive take on things rarely gave you the whole, or true, story. He keyed in on Dele’s comment about missing the way it used to be. Maybe this wasn’t really about Eric at all. Once again, Chris wished someone else could step in to handle things. He really was complete shit when it came to relationship problems.

“Listen, Del, I don’t think this is about Portugal. Or, at least not really. Don’t get me wrong, it does sound like Eric misses home, but…let’s just think about this a minute. What’s the real issue here?”

Dele’s face, still fixed in a scowl, rose to meet Chris’s. “It’s like I said, I don’t know. He won’t say.”

Chris kept his tone light, trying not to sound patronizing. Dele was twenty years old. He thought he knew everything and his whole life was about football, shoes, music, social media, and having as much fun as possible. How could Chris make him see that the best way to solve his problems might just be to take a step back and calm down for a bit?

“I’m not talking about Eric. I’m talking about you. What’s going on with _you_? I mean, hasn’t Eric always been close with his friends in Portugal? He visits every chance he gets and him keeping up with Sporting and what’s going on in the Portuguese league certainly isn’t anything new. So, why is it a problem now?”

Dele bit his lip in thought for a few moments.

“I guess…I dunno it just seems like…like he’s different when he’s with his mates. When he’s chatting with them it’s all laughs and smiles, but with me it’s like he can’t be bothered. Whatever. I’m not planning on spending my life watching Eric sulk about something he won’t tell me. H and I invite him out. He says no. What else can I do about it? He’s happier being Portuguese now I guess. I thought I was enough for him, but I guess that’s not true anymore.”

Dele once again dropped his eyes to the floor and Chris felt the emotion hanging in the space that followed Dele’s words. How had the two let the problems between them get to this point? Dele and Eric’s relationship was rapidly becoming legendary around the league, and Chris knew more than a few people would hate to see it come crashing to an end like this. He knew it happened to a lot of couples, but not to Eric and Dele. The bookmaker’s odds on this one ever coming to a shattered end had to be a billion to one.

Once again, Chris wished he had Eric’s side of things. Dele _was_ right about Eric putting a lot of pressure on himself when it came to his role in the team, and Eric’s struggles as he tried to plug the holes left in the defense were more than obvious. But why wouldn’t Eric lean on Dele for support? Isn’t that what relationships were about? He’d spent so many years watching Jan and Toby look after one another, growing closer as they worked together to solve even the smallest of problems. Chris knew that relationships with teammates could be hard, but he also knew that no one understood the difficulties of this job like someone else who literally lived it every day.

Chris thought about this for a second. Until he spoke with Eric, Chris didn’t know what all this had to do with Portugal, although he had his suspicions. What it really sounded like these two needed was to let go of whatever pretenses they had and sit down together for an honest conversation.

Maybe if Chris could convince Dele to spend a few nights watching Sporting with Eric and showing some interest in Eric’s life back in Lisbon, it might open the door for the two to talk about their actual issues. It was worth a try, anyway. It would get Dele thinking about Eric’s feelings for an evening, at least, which is better than it sounded like he was managing right now.

He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, although Dele still didn’t raise his eyes from his fixed gaze at the floor. “Listen, Del, I think you should just talk for a bit. In the car on the way home. No laughing. No joking. No banter for once. Just ask him about his friends or how Sporting is doing or what he misses about Portugal and then let him tell you.” Chris ran a hand through his hair and tipped his face toward the ceiling. “Hell, I dunno. Maybe ask to go with him the next time he’s looking at flights. Go away somewhere together. To Portugal…or to Southampton.”

Dele scrunched up his nose in disgust at that last suggestion and Chris couldn’t help but laugh as he turned his teammate to face him. “Sometimes, Del, we have to make big sacrifices for those we love.” Chris gave Dele a playful shove toward the door. “Now get out of here before Eric leaves and I have to drive you home. Your five minutes are long past up.”


	4. Toby Alderweireld

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toby and Jan's relationship is adorable. Chris tries not to laugh and solves problem with shoes.
> 
> _“Why are you always right, Chris?”_

 

  
Cover art by: [ItsADrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit)

**Read by** : [ItsADrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit) and [WhiteHaru37](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteHaru37/pseuds/WhiteHaru37)

**Length** : 00:15:49

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streaming with music 

streaming without music 

Chris sat in the quiet of the empty dressing room after the midweek training session. He reveled in the relative silence and the weight of muscles tired from work. Chris loved training these days; it was simple, it was straight forward, and he could always figure out what he should do. Life with his Spurs family outside of training had been so much less simple in recent weeks.

Vincent still was having trouble adjusting to both the Prem and life in England. The sad look in his friend's eyes sometimes haunted Chris as he lay awake on lonely nights. Dele and Dier’s relationship/not relationship was a spectacular mess that Chris worried may cause irreparable harm to the Spurs’ dynamic if Dele didn’t take his recent advice to sit down and thrash things out with Eric. On top of all of this, Chris’s long-time friends Jan and Toby kept taking turns hurting themselves, and the endless cycle of injury and recovery seemed to be taking a toll on both of them.

The automatic motion lights in the dressing room clicked off and Chris roused himself from his thoughts. Inhaling a deep, cleansing breath, he stood up and headed out of the dressing room. Chris took one step through the door and stumbled, nearly falling on his face before he grabbed the door frame to stabilize himself. It took him a moment to realize that what had almost sent him plummeting to the floor was a pair of legs. While Chris was trying to figure out what was going on, the legs moved and the body they were presumably attached to started to rise.

Chris recognized Toby the moment they were at eye-level.

“Oh…um…Sorry, Toby?”

“No. My fault, Chris. I was the one laying on the floor.”

“Yeah…why were you on the floor?”

“Well, you were kind of taking forever in there. So…”

“Okay, fair, but why wait around for me?”

Toby bit his bottom lip and stared downward, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “I’m…worried about Jan.”

Chris nodded his agreement, “Me too actually. I was just thinking about how he seemed really down after his latest injury setback. Plus…“

“…there has been a worrying lack of Catan-playing lately.” Chris and Toby said in unison.

“Right, Chris. That’s what’s worrying me. My _maat_ , Jan, he hasn’t been interested swapping wood for weeks.”

Chris felt his eyebrows instinctively shoot upward and he pressed his fist to his mouth, trying not to burst out laughing at Toby’s–hopefully–unintentional euphemism. He felt a hot flush creeping up his face as he sucked in tiny breaths in a desperate attempt to stave off laughter, but his attempts were futile and a sort of snorting giggle escaped. Toby frowned at him, and then realization of what Chris was laughing at washed over his face and Chris saw Toby’s blush rise to match his own.

“Ass.” He slugged Chris in the shoulder.

Chris’s laughter was coming out in tiny, choking sobs now. “You…I…look, I don’t know your life.”

“You’re still an ass. I’m trying to be serious here.”

Chris pressed his knuckles to his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply and regain some composure. Toby was right. He’d come to Chris with a serious situation and Chris owed it to Toby to hear him out.

When he was confident he could meet Toby’s eyes without laughing, he said, “Have you tried talking to him about it?”

Toby nodded sadly, a look of frustration in his eyes, “Yeah. We talk all the time and I’ve tried every way I can think of to just be there for him, but nothing is working. All this injury and recovery and re-injury just seems to have him slipping deeper and deeper into himself. He feels like he’s letting the team down. I tried to tell him, _maat_ , you’re not letting anyone down. I’ve been in and out with injury, too. We’re partners. We support one another and fill in the gaps when the other person needs us too. That’s how it is. But nothing seems to help.”

Chris felt his heart sink at hearing about Jan’s depression. He really liked Jan. They’d been together at Ajax and grown even closer in their years at Spurs, and Jan had been instrumental at helping Chris try to get things with Vincent on track. Toby had, too. He owed both of them a lot. “What about getting him a present or something?”

“I thought about that, but I don’t know what to get him. He’s bought all the Catan expansions and collector’s editions and spin off games. Basically, if it’s a Catan thing, Jan has it. Plus, as we established, he’s not really playing right now anyway.”

“Okay. So. Not Catan then. I don’t know. What’s he got on his Instagram or like, his Amazon wishlist?”

“Does Jan have an Amazon wishlist?”

“Shouldn’t you know that? He’s your _maat_ , Jan, _nee_?”

Toby shot Chris a mock glare while he pulled out his phone and within a minute had found a link to a wishlist that Jan had sent him. “Why are you always right, Chris?”

“He had a wishlist, didn’t he?” Chris asked with a smirk.

Toby playfully shoved Chris in the shoulder, “Shut up, wiseass.”

Toby scrolled through Jan’s wishlist and then looked up at Chris, “Yeah, so, this list is almost entirely limited release or special edition shoes. So, I guess we’re off to…?”

Chris shrugged. “Selfridge’s? Their shoe department is like as big as a couple of stores combined.”

“Cool. Let’s go buy some shoes.”

 

 

Chris followed Toby through the white and navy hallways of the training center to the players’ car park. Toby headed straight for his Audi, which Chris was exceedingly thankful for. He loathed driving in London, and at the best of times Enfield to Oxford Street was a thirty kilometre nightmare that Chris was more than content to let someone else deal with.

With the stop-and-go traffic, it took them nearly an hour to reach Selfridge’s. Toby didn’t seem to mind, just turning up his weird Dutch pop playlist and belting out the words along at the top of his lungs. Chris sighed and stretched out some of his tension as Toby finally pulled up in front of the store and handed his keys to the valet.

Chris pulled his phone out and quickly skimmed through Jan’s wishlist. “So, it looks like high-tops are the way to go.”

Toby laughed. “Major understatement. I swear he has a closet for his high-tops the size of my kitchen. Are there seriously more than two pairs of high-tops he doesn’t own yet?”

“Seems like. Maybe Jan keeps the industry going?” Chris mused with a smirk.

Toby grinned, “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

The pair stepped through the double doors then rode the lift up to the first floor and headed towards the men’s shoe galleries at the opposite side of the store. The store almost empty at this time of day in the middle of the week, which suited Chris and Toby just fine, as it meant they would be able to browse the store on their own and not have to duck into private shopping and hope the attendant brought them shoes that Jan would like.

Chris and Toby walked side by side into the sprawling men’s shoe gallery. Two walls were lined from floor to ceiling with designer sneakers and high tops and another dozen long display tables held boots and loafers.

“This is…a lot of shoes,” Chris said, his eyes wide.

“Right? I’m never giving Jan grief about his shoe collection ever again. He’s small-time compared to this.”

Chris headed to the nearest wall and started browsing. Almost immediately a pair of black and white leather high tops caught his eyes. The MCQ Alexander shoes were almost entirely black except for a white circle on the shaft. Chris picked them up held them toward Toby with a questioning look.

“What do you think of these?”

Toby shrugged. “They’re alright. I think I’ve seen him with a similar pair. I dunno. Never saw the point of dropping two hundred and thirty pounds on a posher version of fifty pound Converse All-Stars.”

Chris nodded. “That’s fair. Plus, I don’t know how I’d feel about Jan owning anything made out of whatever Chris leather is,” he quipped, pointing at the tag and flashing Toby a grin.

Toby laughed and gave Chris a playful shove before turning back to the display.  Chris glanced over at Toby and watched as his friend’s eyes lit up and his mouth quirked into a grin.

“It’s totally these,” Toby said, his face now fixed in the wide, shy smile he reserved for anything that had to do with Jan. He pointed towards a pair of colorful high tops, “These look just like our Euros kits.”

Chris lifted the shoe from its rack and examined it carefully. It was a leather high top with red and yellow stripes around the bottom in the exact shade of the Belgian flag colors. The tops of the shoes were powder blue and black.

“These look like they were designed after your kits. Are these on his list? Because these seem like the exact right gift.”

“Right?” Toby’s face was plastered in a wide grin, all traces of the sadness of a few hours ago erased. Good, Chris thought, one half of Operation Belgian Cheer Up successful then.

Toby lifted the shoe out of Chris’s hands. “Alright, I’m going to get these.” He wandered off to find a shop worker to help him locate the correct size, and Chris flopped into a nearby chair. This would be a good present. Chris hoped it would help cheer Jan up as much as the shopping seemed to have helped Toby. Sure, Jan was the one who was really down, but Toby was always so emotionally in sync with his partner.  If Jan was down, it meant Toby was a little down too.

Toby returned, Selfridge’s bag slung over his shoulder, and flopped down into the chair next to Chris’s. “Chris, mate, I’m not usually a just because gift giver. Birthdays. Christmas. Anniversary, sure, but not just because. How do I give him these?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing. I feel like just handing him the bag and saying ‘you seemed sad because you’re hurt’ is just going to make him feel worse. So, how do I give him these? Am I like, ‘Hey, Jan. You seemed down. Have some kick ass high-tops? Surprise.’ Or, is it more like, ‘I was out randomly looking at shoes and saw these and I thought of you.’ Or just, ‘Here. Have some shoes. Hope you like them!’ None of that feels right, you know?”

“I think you’re way over thinking this, Toby. Just like, give him the shoes. Order in some nice food, set a little mood, and then just give them to him. Like. ‘Hey, Jan. Don’t these high tops look just like our Euros kits? Aren’t they great? Do you like them?’ and then once he’s hooked you hand him the box like, ‘well they’re for you. Bam! Shoes!’”

Toby started to give Chris a Look, but couldn’t keep it together and instead burst into laughter, “Bam, shoes?’ Really? Is that how you give random gifts? I feel better now. At the very least I can’t possibly be more awkward than you.”

“Hey! I’m serious, that would be totally a chill way to give Jan his present. He’ll love it.”

“If handing someone a box and yelling ‘Bam! Shoes!’ into their face actually gets me some play tonight I’ll, I don’t know, drive you to practice for a week.”

Chris stuck his hand out toward Toby. “Deal. I promise you. Super chill. Jan will totally laugh. Plus these shoes are perfect.”

Toby shook his head, then shook Chris’s hand. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll report back with the outcome.”

Chris crinkled up his nose. “Fine. Just…leave out the details please. You two are gross.”

Toby slugged him in the arm again. “Just for that, Eriksen, I’ll write you the novel-length version of how my night progresses.”

 

 

Later that evening Chris reached for his phone to find several texts from Toby waiting for him:

 

 

Chris shook his head at the messages, but felt the smile creep across his face. He was glad for his two friends, Toby’s oversharing aside.

From the looks of things, Toby would be occupied for the rest of the night, but Chris was still smiling as he typed out a response. Never let it be said that he missed an opportunity to gloat over a win.

 


	5. Eric Dier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric is drinking away his misplaced feelings, Dele is clueless, and Chris is trying to carry out two separate conversations while learning exactly how done he's starting to be with his teammates' drama.
> 
>   _“I can’t just walk up to a mate and ask him if he’s fucking another mate’s boyfriend. It has nothing to do with me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are SO MANY text message images. I tried to get the convos in the alt tags, but let me know if you need a separate version with just the scripts and I'll try to get one to you.

 

 

  
Cover art by: [ItsADrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit)

**Read by** : [ItsADrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit) and [rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)

**Length** : 00:45:20

**Right click and save as:**  
[mp3 w/ music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/4_EricDier_Music.mp3) | [mp3 w/o music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/4_EricDier_NoMusic.mp3)

streaming with music

streaming without music

As the sun sank low in the winter sky, Chris dragged himself off the pitch and into the Enfield dressing room. Training had been particularly grueling that day and Chris was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to relax into a hot shower, head home, and collapse into his bed until morning.

He focused all his efforts toward putting one heavy leg in front of the other, jerking his head up as his eyes caught the bright white toe of a pristine pair of Adidas Yeezys only to immediately duck back down again to avoid crashing face first into Dele’s elbow as it flew in the direction of Harry Kane. The two laughed and shoved one another on their way out of the dressing room, Dele making desperate grabs toward Harry’s phone and Harry holding Dele back with a palm to the chest, American football style, while holding his phone aloft. Chris neatly sidestepped the flying limb, and, near broken nose aside, couldn’t help but spare a grin over his shoulder. Harry and Dele had grown much closer lately and the two were nearly inseparable these days, always laughing, joking, and happy.

Chris’s smile faded to a frown just as quickly as he turned the corner into the dressing room and caught sight of Eric sitting slumped over on the bench nearest the door, elbows on his knees. Eric stared down the hallway through lowered eyelashes, his head down, his jaw stiff, and his fists clenched between his knees. Chris blew out a sigh and slid onto the bench beside Eric.

“Eric.”

“Chris.” Eric’s voice was flat and his eyes remained fixed on the hallway that Dele and Harry had now vacated.

“Plans tonight?”

Eric snorted and made a vague gesture in the direction of said hallway. “Seems not.”

Chris frowned. He didn’t even remotely want to pry into Eric’s personal life, but until this situation with Eric and Dele was solved, the Spurs’ team relationships weren’t at their best. Since it looked like Dele had no real plans to do anything about whatever was going on with Eric, that meant someone else needed to intervene. Which around here meant him. He sighed. What if he just called Jan and Toby to deal with this? They would have more perspective to offer than he did.

“What about you?” Eric asked, finally dragging his eyes away from the hallway.

“What about me?”

“Plans? What do happy, successful people do after a long day at work?”

“Eric…” Chris started, but Eric cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Ignore me. I’m in a mood. _Arsey_ , as Dele likes to say. I just need to sit and think or a bit before I head home. Don’t let me keep you, though. Go live your happy, successful life.”

That did it. As much as Chris was looking forward to a quiet night at home, maybe with a long soak in a hot bath to ease his aching muscles, he couldn’t just walk away and leave Eric in this state. His Spurs teammates came first, even before his own needs most of the time. “You hungry at all? I’m wiped, but if I head straight home I’ll just fall into bed without bothering and regret it when I wake up famished at three in the morning.”

Eric started to shake his head, then stopped. “You know what, sure. Beats sitting around waiting for Dele to remember he has someone to come home to. I know a place.” Eric climbed to his feet. “Get showered. I’ll meet you out front.”

 

 

And that was how, two hours later, Chris ended up in a back booth of a tiny Portuguese restaurant in an unassuming part of Leyton surrounded by the detritus of seafood, spicy chicken, and what looked to be some kind of tower of meat, frowning into his water glass while Eric sipped from a cocktail and shook the last drops out of the bottle of white wine he’d ordered that evening.

“Damn, this wine is good.” Eric started to raise a hand to signal the waitress for another bottle, but Chris slapped it back down to the table.

“Eric. Stop. What’s going on with you?”

“Just having some drinks, mate. Taking it easy after a long day of training.”

“There’s having some drinks and then there’s…this.” He gestured to the discarded bottle and two half-full drink glasses in front of Eric. “The gaffer nearly killed us at training today and I don’t know about you, but all I wanted to do when we wrapped up was down about four litres of water and collapse into a pile.”

“I’m replacing water with wine.” Eric flashed a grin across the table. “Good Portuguese wine. I can’t believe you don’t want any.” He shoved the half-full glass he’d just poured toward Chris.

Chris sighed. “Fine. At least it will save you drinking it yourself.” Chris took the glass and sipped at it.

The two sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, Eric picking at the remnants of food on the scattered plates before he suddenly spoke. “I’ve been thinking of going back to Portugal.”

Chris jerked his head up, eyes wide as he studied Eric across the table. “Yeah? Quick trip during hols?”

“Oh,” Eric said, sounding distracted. “Yeah. That bit’s all worked out already. We’ve got a bit of a gap just before we’re away to Southampton, so I was thinking I’d spend a few days in Lisbon with some mates and hopefully the family, then catch the team up in Southampton with Cédric and probably José, since those two are always together.”

“And Dele.”

Eric downed the rest of his drink, frowning at the empty bottom of his glass when he’d finished. “Dele’s not coming.”

“What?” Chris’s voice echoed off the booth, but he ignored the glares and head-turns of the nearby patrons. He knew Dele could be a bit dense, but he’d all but taken him by the ear and forced him to ask Eric to take him along on his next trip to Portugal. Even Dele shouldn’t have been able to cock that up.

Chris dropped his head into his hands. He could feel the start of a headache coming on, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t the result of dehydration, despite the day’s exertions. Beneath the table, he slid his phone out of his pocket and balanced it on his knee as he frantically banged out a text message with one hand.

  


He turned his attention away from his phone and back to Eric.

Eric shrugged again just as Chris’s phone buzzed on his knee. “I didn’t ask Del to come,” he said, as if it was the most obvious, normal thing in the world.

“You didn’t…what?” Chris glanced down at his phone and the return text from Dele.

  


“I didn’t ask Del to come with. I didn’t even mention I was going.”

“What do you mean you didn’t ask him to? Why not?”

  


Eric stared at Chris as though he’d just asked why a football was round. “I didn’t think he’d want to go. He’s really been after me lately about how all I do is chat with my mates instead of doing whatever it is he and H are up to, so I just…I dunno I didn’t need it to turn into another conversation, mostly. Dele has no interest in that part of my life so I figured, why bring it up.”

“Why? Eric. I…” Chris trailed off, distracted by his phone as he hastily banged out another text.

  


The waitress appeared beside the table and began clearing a few of the emptier plates away before she set another bottle of wine — red this time — on the table between them. Great. He’d been so distracted that he’d missed Eric ordering even more to drink.

“Eric, I really don’t think more wine is a good idea.”

“Then don’t have any.” Eric snapped, filling his empty glass to the brim and taking a long drink. Great. Because Eric getting even drunker was going to somehow help him make sense out of this already fucked up conversation.

“So. Okay. Fine. You’re going to Portugal and you didn’t think to mention it to your boyfriend because sometimes he’s mean to you about your mates in Portugal. You realise you’re both acting like children about this, right? What’s Dele supposed to do when you’re gone?”

“Whatever he wants. He’ll probably be too busy with his Snapchat story and whatever he and H are doing to notice I’ll be gone for a week anyway.”

Chris flicked his attention back to the phone at his knee.

  


He turned back to Eric, who had managed to finish his glass of wine and was starting in on another.

“Seriously, Eric, stop drinking. Poch is going to murder me.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Who made you the fun monitor? Listen, Chris, I’ve become completely replaceable in the team, my defending is worse than shit, and my boyfriend is getting ever closer to shagging one of our best mates. Haven’t I earned a proper piss up by now?”

Chris’s leg shook as Dele’s texts came in rapid succession. He hated to take his focus off Eric for even a second right now, but he had a feeling the only person who could solve this was Dele.

  


“Eric. Wait. Back up. First of all, what are you talking about replaceable?” Chris figured he might as well attack the on-field issues before digging into the actual bomb Eric just dropped on the conversation. Hell, he might need more wine himself before heading down that road. “You know we’d be lost if you hadn’t been able to step in at centre back this year, right?”

Another eyeroll. “You just gonna ignore the rest of that?”

“No. Just taking on one thing at a time. Your defending isn’t shit. And you’re not replaceable.”

Eric shrugged. “Toby will be back soon and Vic plays the midfield spot better than I do anyway. He and Mousa are better together. I mean, face it, I’m probably on my way out in the summer anyway.”

Chris pulled at the front of his hair as he dropped his head into his palm. “Eric…what? Since when are you on your way out in the summer? You start every match. And you just signed a new contract. Back up about five steps and explain where this is coming from all of a sudden.”

“It’s coming from me spending every match figuring out how to be more shit at my position than I was the week before.” Eric sat back in the booth and folded his arms across his chest. “Honestly, mate, I keep waiting for the day the gaffer decides that having three at the back would be a better idea than sending me out there to pretend I used to be a competent defender at any point in my career. Another reason I’m headed to Portugal, actually.”

The insistent buzz at his knee briefly took Chris back to his phone.

  


“What about Portugal?” Chris asked, looking back up from his phone.

“Right,” Eric said. “I’ve been talking to my mates and I feel pretty good about convincing Sporting to at least negotiate a loan back. Or, I dunno, Porto maybe. Not ideal, but at least it gets me near home.”

Chris stared at his friend for a long moment, trying to sort out what Eric had just said, but. Was he seriously talking about asking the club to send him back to Portugal in the summer? “I’m sorry…what? Do you even know how much a move like that costs? Eric, you’re a first team regular in a top team in the Premier League. Where do you think a club in Portugal is going to come up with the money for that transfer? And anyway, even _if_ Sporting could find the money, do you honestly think the gaffer’s just going to let you go?”

Eric shrugged. “Like I said. I’m replaceable. Face it. The only reason I’m even getting first team minutes right now is that Jan and Toby keep trading off injuries and we have literally no one else to play central defense. Once everyone’s healthy I doubt anyone’s going to fight very hard to hang on to me. I may as well start exploring my options now.”

Chris tugged at his hair. Again. What was going on? How had he somehow missed that things were so bad with Eric that he was thinking about leaving? And Portugal? Eric had to know there was no way that could realistically happen? Clearly things were far less under control than he’d thought.

He looked up at Eric and held up one hand. “Wait. So. Okay. Let’s just…suppose all this about you being terrible at your position and unnecessary to the team is true. Which it’s not, by the way. You can’t just…decide to leave. First of all, football doesn’t work that way. You don’t just get to decide where to go.” He shook his head. “And any rate, even if they did, you’re not just talking about leaving the club, which is bad enough, or leaving London for like, Manchester, which is a whole ‘nother level, but…leaving England? Eric, have you thought about this at all? Because, you know it’s not just Spurs keeping you here. It’s…what about…everything else?”

Eric snorted. “Say what you’re meaning to say, mate. You mean how am I talking about leaving Dele?”

“Yeah. Okay. Fine. What about Dele? Please tell me you’ve discussed this.”

Eric shrugged. “No. Can’t imagine he’d give half a fuck though. I can already tell you how the conversation would go. ‘Hey, Del, I was thinking…’ ‘That’s great, Eric, me and H are headed out. Don’t hang about.’ Same fucking conversation every time.”

Chris raised his eyebrows. “Literally no one will ever believe that’s true. Do you understand that the entire world can only hope to someday meet someone who loves them the way Dele loves you. Eric, he _adores_ you. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one is paying attention. Hell, the way he looks at you sometimes when he knows everyone is paying attention. He loves you. Whatever’s going on with you just talk to him. He’ll understand.”

“Doubt it. He doesn’t have time for me anymore. He’s never home anyway and when I do try talking to him about how shit I’ve been playing lately he shrugs and tells me it’s not that deep and turns it into a laugh. I brought up how poorly I was feeling about my defending in the last match and you know what he said? ‘Yeah, what’s up with that mate? You were pretty shit.’ Then he and H shared a laugh and asked if I wanted to join them for five-a-side. He’s my boyfriend and my best mate and I can’t even get him to at least pretend he gives half a fuck about my life. Whenever we do get some time alone all of a sudden H is texting him and he’s on his mobile laughing instead of spending time with me. The fucking picture of the loving, caring partner, yeah? Whatever.” Eric downed the rest of his glass of wine in one gulp. “He and H deserve each other.”

That did it. Chris had tried to stay out of the messy relationship parts of this thing, but this was the fourth time Eric had alluded to something more than friendship between Dele and Harry and Chris needed to know what was going on. For the good of the team, if nothing else. If Dele and Harry really were getting as close as Eric seemed to think, Chris could think of absolutely no way the team dynamic could survive the fallout. “Stop. Eric. Fucking stop. What are you on about? Dele and Harry are what? Together? Or..?”

Eric shook his head. “You honestly can’t tell me you don’t see it, mate. They’re literally always together. Or if they’re not it’s snapchat and texting. It’s at home, on the training pitch, after training. All the fucking time. It started with the handshake and now they’re doing interviews together and pulling pranks on one another, same as Del and I used to. When Dele scores now does he come to me? No, he runs straight to H. Because why would you wait for your boyfriend to sprint the fucking length of the pitch for a hug when you’ve got someone right there ready to adore you? And the fucking secret handshakes. I don’t have a secret handshake. I’m his fucking boyfriend and I can’t even get a fucking handshake.” Eric dropped his head backward until it thudded against the wood of the booth.

“Face it. It’s not Dele and Dier anymore. It’s Dele and Prince Harry now. Inseparable partners on and off the field. Trust me, Dele will be fine. He’s got my replacement all lined up. I’ll see out the rest of the season, but past that, I can’t see the point. I can’t take another year of this. I can’t even be happy about wins anymore because every fucking time H scores I have to watch my boyfriend jump into his arms. So yeah, mate, I kind of want to leave. And I flat out don’t care if Dele has an opinion about it.”

Chris puffed his cheeks out as he blew out an enormous breath. He needed to text Dele back. Immediately. But Eric deserved a response first.

“Listen. I’ll give you a break because you’ve had A LOT to drink, but…all of that is absolutely fucking ridiculous. It’s true that Harry’s definitely been closer with Dele this year. On the pitch anyway. I have no idea what you all do in your personal time. But honestly, Eric, I don’t think it’s as sinister as all that. I think Harry’s just trying to be there for Dele. He’s just that sort of mate.”

Eric snorted. “The kind of mate that wants to shag another mate’s boyfriend?”

Chris pressed his fingertips to his temples and tried not to scream. How was he supposed to get through to someone who’d had enough alcohol to lose whatever common sense they’d had in the first place?

“Here’s the thing. Like I was saying, Harry is just…he’s there for people you know? For all of us. You know if you need something, all you need to do is ask him and he’ll do what he can. And he and Dele have always been close. Not like you and Dele, but like…Harry’s got Dele’s back, you know? He looks out for him. Always has.”

Eric frowned, but didn’t protest, so Chris went on.

“It’s not really a secret around the dressing room that something is off with you and Dele. You may think you’re keeping it all at home, but…” He trailed off.

“Anyway, with as close as Dele and Harry are, well, Harry’s bound to pick up on it. His friend is going through a rough spot and, whether he knows it or not, Harry’s just trying to lend more support to Dele because he thinks Dele needs him more. And…in a way he does.”

Eric slammed his hands on the table in exasperation, making the crockery and plates rattle. Chris flashed an apologetic smile to the other restaurant patrons who turned to stare at the source of the noise.

“Eric. Can you just…calm down a bit, okay. The whole building doesn’t need to witness this.”

Eric rolled his eyes at Chris, but thankfully sat back in his seat and kept his voice to a normal level.

“First of all, if Dele did need support he can get it from me. His boyfriend. His fucking best mate. Second of all, what the fuck does Dele need support for? He’s the one being an asshole. If anyone needs support here, it’s me, but does Dele want to hear it? No.”

He leaned back and rested his head against the top of the booth. “I’ve told you, Chris. Literally every conversation we have — which by the way aren’t very many these days, at least ones that don’t also include H — go like this. ‘Me: ‘Hey, Del, can we talk?’ Him: ‘sure, as long as you don’t mind me not turning off my music and continuing to work on my Snapchat.’ Me: ‘So I feel like this.’ Him five minutes later: ‘What were you saying, Diet? Defending? It’s fine. Listen, mate, I don’t really want to talk about football right now.’ But Dele needs someone to love and support him? Sure, mate.”

Chris closed his eyes. It was late and he was exhausted and his best idea for fixing this was to lock the two of them in a room with no distractions and not let them out until they’d either fucked it out or one of them had actually strangled the other.

“No. Stop. I’m not listening to this. He says you won’t talk to him, you say he won’t listen to you. I’m a midfielder, not a fucking Agony Aunt. You two, or hell — all three of you if you have to — need to work this out. And you’d better do it before the gaffer gets involved because I swear to everything, Eric, if you make this a problem on the pitch…” Chris’ voice trailed off as he ran out of words and energy.

“If you don’t want it to be a problem on the pitch then fucking tell H to back off. I’ll talk to Dele, fine. But…I can’t watch this happening right in front of me every day at training and I sure as fuck can’t concentrate on fixing my shit defending when I’m worried every pass I grab on a counter is going to end with my boyfriend’s dick pressed against Harry.”

Chris tugged at his hair with both hands now. Talk to H. About what? How was _that_ conversation supposed to go? Should he just wander over and say ‘ _So, Harry, about you and this relationship that has literally nothing to do with me._ ’

“Bit awkward, yeah?”

“Eh?”

“I can’t just walk up to a mate and ask him if he’s fucking another mate’s boyfriend. It has nothing to do with me.”

“Hold on a second, okay?” he said to Eric. “I’m listening. I just need some time to process.”

Eric shrugged and filled up another glass of wine.

Chris jabbed at the keys on his phone, words spilling out of his fingers at Dele in a miniature tirade as he ignored spelling and grammar and autocorrect and just flung his thoughts at the tiny screen on his knee.

  


Chris looked up from his phone and back at Eric. “I spoke with Dele about this a few days ago. He’d probably kill me if he knew I told you, but if you two aren’t going to talk to one another about your issues then someone has to. I’m beyond caring at this point, anyway. Look. Dele told me he felt like you were pushing him away… “

Eric started to interrupt, but Chris cut him off with a glare.

“No. Eric. Listen. Whatever’s going on or whatever you think is going on, just…let me talk, okay?”

Eric scowled at Chris, but he picked up his glass of wine, which Chris took as a small sign of compliance and continued speaking.

“Here’s the thing. You’re angry because Dele seems to be pulling away from you and toward Harry. And you think Dele won’t talk to you. But did you ever think that maybe, one, you’re putting a lot on him right now and he’s not sure how to process it, and two, you’re not actually giving him the space to work through things on his end?”

Eric raised his eyebrows. “What does Dele have to process? I’m the one having a hard time while he’s out there getting interviewed and being the star.”

“If you honestly think your struggles aren’t hard on Dele then I’m not sure you actually understand how relationships work. Look. Maybe it’s different for you because you’ve got a good support network to lean on. Huge, close-knit family. Tons of friends both here in England and back in Lisbon. But, see, Dele doesn’t have that. You know his family situation, for one thing. Even his friends- sure he’s met some people through the national team as well as Spurs- but in terms of the people he leans on the most it’s really you. And Harry. So…if you’re hurting and Dele is trying to figure out how to help you, he needs to lean more on the rest of his support network, right? Which in this case means Harry.”

Chris felt his phone buzz three times in rapid succession and he held up one finger towards Eric. “One second. I have to deal with this.” He moved the phone from his lap to the table and scanned through Dele’s return texts.

  


Chris shoved his phone into his pocket looked back up at Eric, whose head was still resting against the headrest back and staring at the ceiling. “Bottom line is that you need to back off on Harry and you need to stop putting your on-field issues on Dele and you need to spend less time with your mates in Portugal and more time figuring things out with Dele, because from what I can tell, both of you are doing everything _except_ dealing with your issues right now. Which is completely not healthy.”

Eric blew out a breath, swayed forward to reach for the bottle of wine again. Chris reached across the table and snatched the bottle from Eric’s hand, setting it on his side of the table well out of Eric’s reach.

Eric glared at him, but Chris glared right back.

Finally, Eric dropped back to lean against the booth again, arms folded across his chest and his mouth fixed in a scowl.

After a few moments, he finally spoke. “I suppose you’re right, Chris. As usual. You’re always fucking right.”

“Yeah?” Chris leaned toward Eric, both elbows on the table.

“Yeah. Dele doesn’t have all the friends I do. I mean. He has mates, but …nothing serious. So. Okay. Fine. But I still hate seeing him together with H all the time. I need support from Dele too, you know. My life is going to shit and he doesn’t care. My friends and family, they care. They support me. Remind me how I got through it last time and I’ll get through it again. They love me. He …I dunno…” Eric trailed off with a vague wave of his hand.

“You have to let him help you, though. I get that your family is important. And your friends. And Portugal. That you feel supported. That its… I don’t know, easier. You know?”

“Eh?” Eric slurred, his eyes glazed over with the unfocused stare of the far too drunk.

Chris sighed. Right. He’d have to break this down as if he were explaining tactics to a group of primary school children.

“It’s like… I experience England differently than you do or than Dele does, because this isn’t my culture. And I experience Holland differently than Vince, even though I moved there when I was young and in many ways grew up to be an adult there. And on top of that, you might not see it, but people are different people in different languages, because language is different. And culture is different. That’s why whenever I speak to Vince it’s in Dutch, because he’s Dutch and I know him as Dutch. Because in English he’s much more hesitant. He’s reserved and holds himself back. But in Dutch he’s just…he’s so much more.”

Chris leaned back and shook his head. This wasn’t about him and Vincent. It was about Eric and Dele.

“So Dele. He’s English. Proper English. Born here. Always lived here. Sure, he’s been to Portugal and he’s seen your world and he’s seen you in it, but he’s not a part of it like you are. When I moved to Holland from Denmark, it was hard because even though I had worked to learn the language, there was still so much I didn’t understand. Same when I came here.” He raked his hands through his hair. None of this was making any sense.

“I just think. Imagine you’re in Dele’s position. When you come to him you’re hurting and he doesn’t know how to help. And sure he’s maybe an ass about it, because deflecting is what he does sometimes instead of confronting. But when you’re with him you’re upset and frustrated and sad, which is difficult for him. And then when you’re on the phone with your mates everything is in Portuguese and he can’t understand you, so all he can see is you laughing and joking and happy. That makes you feel…it makes you feel like you’re not enough to help the person you love. And…that’s hard, Eric. You have to see that’s hard.”

Eric had his head dropped back against the booth again. He stayed that way, unmoving for what felt like an eternity to Chris.

After a few moments, Eric finally raised his head, his eyes trying and failing to focus on Chris’. “So. I should stop calling my mates. I should just…give up being Portuguese? Be proper English so Del doesn’t feel left out?”

Chris shook his head. “Not any more than I’ve given up being Danish or Mousa’s given up being Belgian. No. Just. Maybe with Dele. Pull it back a little. He’s young, Eric. I know you mean well, and so does he. Maybe a few more nights with Dele and Harry and a few less nights on the phone. And, honestly, lean on Harry a bit. He’s good at this sort of thing. You’ll see.”

Chris glanced down at his watch, noting the time. Dele should be here soon. He waved the waitress over for the bill.

When it arrived, he shoved it toward Eric’s side of the table. “I’m knackered. And tonight’s your shout. I meant to be in bed at least sixty percent less drama ago.”

Eric squinted at him, but clearly decided whatever Chris had said wasn’t worth processing. He fumbled his wallet out of his pocket, stared down at the notes inside, then toward the bill, then began indiscriminately yanking notes out of his wallet and tossing them on the table. Chris took pity on him and eased both cash and bill from his hands; carefully counting the correct amount and handing Eric’s wallet back to him.

Eric started to push himself out of the booth, but immediately fell back down with a thud. He stared up at Chris. “I think…you’d best give me a lift back to mine.”

Eric fished around the pocket of his training bottoms, presumably for his keys, which resulted in him toppling sideways into the booth. He frowned, then gripped the table hard and levered himself to a sitting and then standing position, not letting go of the table as he wrestled his keys from his pocket and dropped them toward Chris’s palm. “Okay,” he said, easing himself away from the table “let’s—”

His statement cut off abruptly as Eric released the table and immediately tumbled toward the floor. He let out a squeak as he fell and then a startled ;“ _oof_!” as he landed into Dele’s waiting arms. Dele laughed as Eric’s weight almost sent them both sprawling to the ground and he held tight to Eric’s biceps while he righted both of them.

“Ugh. You weigh a tonne, you oaf.”

Eric blinked at Dele a few times as if trying to decide whether he was real or not. “Del? How are you here?”

“Christ, you’re proper legless, yeah? Honestly, Diet, I don’t know what to do with you sometimes.”

He looped an arm around Eric’s waist then lifted Eric’s opposite arm and ducked under it, draping it across his own shoulder as he tried to balance out Eric’s full weight against his slight frame.

Eric, for his part, tried to straighten up to standing, but it just made Dele struggle more. Chris ducked under Eric’s other arm and they half dragged him toward the door. Chris was glad that the restaurant’s crowd seemed to have thinned out. That interim space between the supper crowd and the late night bar scene. Only a couple at a table on the other side of the restaurant and a handful of people seated at the bar. The last thing any of them needed was a story in tomorrow’s news about Eric Dier in a bar in Leyton with his Spurs teammates so drunk he couldn’t stand up on his own.

Chris let go of Eric to work the door open, shifting more of Eric’s weight to Dele, who laughed as the two nearly toppled over again. Dele laughed again as he led Eric out the door and into the dark of the London night. The sound light and easy after all the heaviness of the past few hours.

Dele led Eric down the street toward the car, Chris ducking back beneath Eric’s left arm in support. He hoped Dele hadn’t parked too far away.

Fortunately, Dele’s car was neatly tucked up behind Eric’s down a quiet side street a few meters from the restaurant. Chris dipped out from under Eric’s arm as he eased the other man’s weight back onto Dele and angled toward Eric’s car. “Eric drove us here,” he said by way of explanation as he pressed the button to unlock the doors. “I’ll drive his car back to Enfield tomorrow and swap it out with mine.”

Eric swiveled his head toward Chris. “That’s my car.”

Chris gave a small laugh. “I know. I promise to bring it back in one piece.”

Dele steered Eric toward his own car, which was far smaller than Eric’s Range Rover. Dele struggled against Eric’s weight as he half-dragged Eric, whose eyelids were beginning to sag closed as the wine he’d drunk pushed him into a drunken half-sleep. Eric stumbled as they reached the door, nearly dragging both he and Dele to the ground, but Dele managed to right himself and brace Eric against the car door as he fumbled with his keys.

“You’re a handful, Diet, you know that?”

Eric rolled his head to the side to look at Dele. “Del?”

“Yeah?”

“’m sorry.”

“I know, Diet. Me too.” Dele glanced up and down the street, finding it deserted, even in the relative warmth of the London night. He reached around Eric to ease the door open, and let Eric half collapse inside.

After another glance up and down the street, he leaned forward, slipping a hand under Eric’s chin and tipping up his slumped head.

“Lips,” he said, barely loud enough for Chris to hear, and was rewarded with a press of Eric’s lips against his own.

Chris looked away, stepping closer to Eric’s car. This was a private moment, and he didn’t need to intrude. Still, the fact that Dele would take the risk of this bit of intimacy, no matter how slight, in the midst of the London street, spoke volumes about how he viewed his relationship with Eric. That he would risk so much just for this.

He started to open the door and climb into the car, but stopped at a noise behind him. Dele had gently slid the door shut, and in the dim light of the street Chris could see Eric slouched sideways against the window.

Dele flashed Chris a cheeky grin and his signature awkward wave as he made his way around the front of the car to the driver’s side door. “Thanks, mate. I owe you… right, I’m pretty sure I can never make this one up to you.”

Chris let out a small laugh and raised one eyebrow at him. “Tell you what. Whatever’s going on. Fix it. Then we’re square.”


	6. Son Heung-min

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris just wants to eat lunch, Sonny is the most ridiculous human in the world, and Chris should really just stop answering his phone. 
> 
>  
> 
> _He was going to die in a London cab while holding a Hello Kitty swimming pool._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, we're not even sure what happened here.
> 
> There are so many text messages.
> 
> Again, if you need a version without photos and/or the alt text isn't working for you let us know and we'll get you a script. But also there is a podfic where you can listen to us attempt to read all these photos and emojis.

 

  
Cover art by: [ItsADrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit)

**Read by** : [ItsADrizzit, ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit), [WhiteHaru37](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteHaru37/pseuds/WhiteHaru37), [annapods](http://archiveofourown.org/users/annapods/pseuds/annapods), [frecklebombfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklebomb/pseuds/frecklebombfic), [fulldaysdrive](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fulldaysdrive/pseuds/fulldaysdrive), [arioch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklebomb/pseuds/http://archiveofourown.org/users/Arioch/pseuds/Arioch), and [wingedwords](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowderandlove/pseuds/wingedwords)

**Length** : 00:49:46

**Right click and save as:**  
[mp3 w/ music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/5_Sonny_Music.mp3) | [mp3 w/o music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/5_Sonny_NoMusic.mp3)

streaming with music 

streaming without music 

Chris reached into his pocket for his phone as it buzzed four times in quick succession. He sighed as he saw Sonny’s name attached to all four message notifications. Texts from Sonny almost always ended with Chris worn out, both physically and emotionally, as it was nearly impossible to match Sonny’s near constant cheerfulness. After a deep breath to ready himself, Chris unlocked his phone and read the texts.

  


Chris stared at his phone for a moment just taking the texts in. A photo of Sonny riding on Kevin’s back? Those two were as ridiculous as ever. What did the rest of this mean? Five? Clock moon football? Chris understood the words, but why did Sonny always feel the need to add a dozen extra emojis? Sonny was a happy puppy dog of a guy and Chris could picture the gleam in Sonny’s eyes and big smile as he thought about throwing a party for Kevin. He could picture all of them joking and smiling and leaving all the drama and stress behind. With all that had been going on lately, the team could really use a break.

On the other hand, Chris just wanted to relax with a quiet lunch at his favourite _smorrebrod_ place and not deal with anyone for a while. Chris looked at his phone’s lock screen. It was 13:34 on November fifth. They had a Derby tomorrow. Why was Sonny throwing Kevin a birthday party the night before any match, let alone that match? Chris didn’t even think it was Kevin’s actual birthday. Then again, it would be so typically Sonny to throw someone a surprise birthday party on a completely random day.

He pictured the sad puppy eyes that Sonny would give him if he said no. Chris hated Sonny’s sad puppy face. It made him feel like he was the adult on the team taking away everyone’s fun.

Whatever. After all the drama with Dele and Eric the other day, helping Sonny out might actually be a nice break. Maybe a party was just what the team needed to help them all relax before a big match. Besides, how hard could it be to help pick up snacks or balloons?

  


Chris sent the message and kept walking towards the cafe for lunch. The vibration of Chris’s phone in his pocket made it feel like his leg was going numb as texts streamed in, and Chris got the gut feeling he might have made a mistake. When the text stream finally stopped, Chris slid his phone out of his pocket to see what he’d gotten himself into.

  


Blinking at the words on his phone, Chris stood on the corner for an entire crossing cycle trying to absorb the random list of items. Did Sonny just ask him to get champion balls? And where in Enfield was Sonny planning to arrange a party with a blow up jet-ski? Chris just shook his head and started to try and figure out where he could possibly track down all of these things in the next five hours.

Chris closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. One thing at a time. Which one of these random objects would be easiest to find? The kiddie pool seemed the easiest, although it was November, so perhaps not. Who on the team might know where to get kid’s stuff nearby? Hugo had kids about kiddie pool age.

  


Hugo must not have been up to anything because a response came a minute later.

  


Chris fired off a quick thank you and crossed Cavendish Square Gardens towards Oxford Street.

Ten minutes later, Chris was walking in the front door of House of Fraser. He headed straight for the lift and rode it to the floor with the kids’ section. Walking with a purpose, Chris wove through the crowds of excited children dragging tired looking adults and determined adults dragging tired looking children through racks and shelves of clothes and toys. Dress clothes, babywear, electronics. Chris zipped through all of them as his eyes darted back and forth, scanning the store for children’s toys or summer wear or something that might possibly have a kiddie pool. Why the hell did Sonny need a kiddie pool? What were thirty grown adults going to do with a kiddie pool? Chris decided he didn’t actually want to know and forced his way further into the store. Finally, after dodging another handful of children, he spotted a sign in the back corner that proclaimed swimwear and beelined straight for it.

As he grew nearer, the piercing shrieks of children assaulted his ears, and a wall of neons and pastels rose up before him. Chris called up his powers of determination and gap finding, and waded into the sea of tiny clothes and people, heading towards the shelves on the back wall. He pressed his lips into a determined line as he weaved left and right avoiding leveling children or their adults. It was so much harder to work through a crowd when you couldn’t put a forearm into someone’s chest. Chris pretended he was oblivious to the sidelong glances he got from parents as he moved through the section. A young, single man wandering alone through racks of tiny two-piece bathing costumes wasn’t exactly a cause for alarm, but Chris could see how it might be a bit unsettling.

Still.

How were these people to know he didn’t have a daughter at home and he’d been sent out on an errand. Or he might be shopping for a niece or nephew. It wasn’t like he was ogling children. Quite the opposite, actually, he thought as he dodged another small child with a deft sidestep and a glare. Why wouldn’t Sonny ask someone who actually had children to handle this particular party item? At long last, he maneuvered to the back wall and started scanning the displays. Goggles. Floaties. Pool toys. There, pools. Two sizes. Chris pulled out his phone and sent a text to Sonny.

  


A reply arrived nearly instantaneously.

  


What? How big did a kiddie pool have to be to fit an inflatable jet-ski in it? How big was an inflatable jet-ski anyway? Was there actually a kiddie pool somewhere in the world big enough that you could ride a jet-ski in it? Chris considered both the small and large pools trying to decide. The larger seemed the safer bet. That way if for some reason an inflatable jet-ski was the same size as a regular jet-ski it might actually fit in the pool. Maybe. Chris had no idea. He also had no idea how he was supposed to get a plastic pool that was nearly as big as he was home in a taxi, but he supposed he’d just have to take on one problem at a time. Chris pursed his lips and shrugged before reaching for the larger of the generic blue pools, but before he could lift it off the bottom rack a small child dashed in front of him, snatched up the pool, and started dragging it toward his mother. Chris opened his mouth to protest, but decided that yelling at a small child in a department store was probably not the best for his public image. He was dressed in jeans and a grey jumper with no hint of Spurs apparel, and he wasn’t exactly close to Tottenham, but he was still north of the Thames and a decently recognizable Premier League player. The last thing he needed was a writeup on Sky about him stealing toys from children.

Chris turned back to the pools, frowning as he noted that the only pool that looked large enough to hold a jet-ski — and did he seriously just think those words? What even was his life anymore? — was shaped like a giant pink and white cat head. Hello Kitty or something like that. Chris rolled his eyes toward the pool and yanked it off the shelf rack before he could get pool-jacked by yet another small child and marched out of the section with it tucked under his arm, once again ignoring the quizzical expressions directed his way as he stomped toward the nearest checkout, paid for the pool, and got out of the store as quickly as he was able.

As the Oxford Street crowds rushed past him, Chris recombobulated and thought about what made the most sense next. Sweet balls? No, getting food last made the most sense, but looking for obscure authentic Austrian food seemed like a much easier task than trying to find an inflatable jet-ski. Did those even exist? He quickly googled _inflatable jet-ski_ and was shocked to see that not only did they exist, but some of them were motorized. How was that even safe? Chris  flicked through the search results on his phone, searching for pool or boat supply store somewhere in London that might actually sell an inflatable jet-ski. To his surprise, there were plenty of options. Was this really a thing people in England needed? Were there like secret inflatable jet-ski racing clubs on the Thames or something?

Skimming through the reviews, Chris read, “… _little toy jet-ski for my kid…_ ” which was good enough. He was pressed for time. The review was for someplace called Gunners Floats and Boats. It was near King’s Cross, which wasn’t exactly close, although it would be on the way to Enfield. He wished he knew where this Austrian balls place was so he wouldn’t have to trek all across London and back, but he supposed there was nothing for it. He hailed a cab and headed off to make his next purchase.

In the cab, he began texting Sonny with an update, but was cut off before he could finish.

  


“Bloody hell. You’re Christian Fuckin’ Ericksen.”

Chris slowly raised his eyes to see the cabby staring at him wide-eyed in the rearview mirror; not even remotely focused on the road ahead of him. Chris noted the Spurs air freshener dangling from the mirror. An air freshener? Christ, the club would merchandise anything, it seemed. The cabbie was still staring at him expectantly in the rearview mirror. Inclining his head slightly, Chris dropped his eyes to the floor of the cab, and quietly mumbled, “uh….yeah...that’s me.” Chris wasn’t even sure he could be heard over the angry honks of other drivers as the cab started to drift out of its lane.

The cabbie let out a booming laugh and Chris could hear him banging on the cab’s dash. Chris was terrible at dealing with gregarious fans, especially the boisterous Londoners. He could never match their excitement, or their loudness. Another loud honk and the cabbie whipped his head around briefly to yank the wheel hard to the right, narrowly avoiding scraping against a car in the lane to their left. Chris kept his head down and tried to hide the panic in his eyes, as the car’s momentum sent him sliding to the left across the seat and he flailed wildly for something to grab onto.

“Football ace like you in my cab. Wait’ll I tell my mates. Can I get an autograph? Better, can I get a selfie with you?” The cabbie spoke both quickly and loudly, his voice echoing off the interior. Chris kept his eyes focused on the cab floor. Which he now noticed had Spurs floor mats. He also noted that the floor was immaculate. Were all London cabs this clean?

The cabbie was still prattling on and Chris knew the polite thing to do would be to put on his public relations face and give the man a smile and a polite chat. When he did raise his head, he saw the cabbie’s eyes still fixed on Chris’s reflection in the mirror. The sound of car horns and screeching wheels surrounded them as the cabbie inattentively wove his way through London traffic. Oh god, Chris thought, he was going to die in a London cab…

“…seriously mate, what’s with the swimming pool? Are you sure we can afford you out and shopping before the big one against the Gunners tomorrow?” the cabbie continued and again jerked the wheel quickly to one side and then the other narrowly avoiding yet another wreck, while Chris was tossed about in the back.

He was going to die in a London cab while holding a Hello Kitty swimming pool.

“Um…it’s a gift…for…a party…” Chris paused awkwardly for a moment before adding, “Would love to…to do a selfie with a top supporter. When we get to the shop? I’m sure it will turn out better than trying to do it now.”

“Thanks, mate! You’re aces.” The cabbie smiled broadly and finally looked at the road. Maybe he would survive after all. Chris tried to let himself relax a little as he attempted to banter politely about the club, commenting on how great the fans were and the most likely outcome of the Arsenal match tomorrow. Thankfully, it seemed both the conversation and the promise of a photo had helped the cabbie settle down and concentrate on driving.

Ten minutes later the cabbie pulled over and stopped. Chris slid forward, shoving the Hello Kitty pool out of the shot, and smiled his best media-trained smile. The cabbie pulled out his phone and had a huge grin on his face as he clicked the selfie.

“This has made my fuckin’ year. Thanks.”

Chris nodded and handed the cabbie a twenty pound note. “Happy to meet such a huge supporter. Keep the change.”

“Hey, thanks, Mate. You’re alright.” the cabbie’s grin stretched across his whole face for a moment before it turned down into a more serious look. “Now, you be careful in there. Don’t let them throw you off your game before tomorrow. They’d do it too.”

“Ok. Umm…thanks?” Chris said, a little puzzled, although he nodded seriously for the cabbie’s benefit. “I’ll make sure.”

Chris slid out of the cab and gave the cabbie a polite wave. He heard the cabbie shout, “Come on you Spurs!” as he drove away.

Still a little confused, Chris took a deep breath to settle himself after his harrowing experience in London traffic and turned toward the shop. Oh, that’s what he meant. Chris let out a choking laugh, as he took in the gaudy, facade of Gunners Floats and Boats. This day just kept getting better. Every square foot of the storefront was covered with the red, navy, or gold of Arsenal. Chris couldn’t even see in the windows because they were plastered with photos of happy smiling people dressed in Arsenal gear enjoying their pool toys and watercraft.

Chris pulled out his phone and sent off a couple more texts to Sonny.

  


Chris looked over the wall of Arsenal images again. Was he honestly going to visit an Arsenal-themed store the afternoon before a Derby? He had not signed up for this. Maybe he should just text Sonny and tell him to get someone else to deal with this.

  


Before Chris could even exit out of messenger, Sonny replied back.

  


Great, he’d pulled out the heavy weapons right out of the gate. A photo of him from the recent Olympics making that shocked, sad face after South Korea lost out. That was in no way fair. The concern for his well-being wasn’t fair either, but Chris didn’t see how he was supposed to find time to get this jet-ski and the weird Austrian food, while also finding a place to eat lunch. Chris could feel himself caving even before Sonny’s next texts arrived.

  


Chris glared at the photo of Sonny making a pleading face, then sighed. Maybe he could just get in and get out and not really have to talk with anyone. That would be ideal. Which, with the way this day was going, almost certainly meant it wasn’t going to happen.

Despite his dread, he was somewhat heartened by the fact that one of the pictures in the shop window was of a tween in an Arsenal life jacket sitting atop a toy jet-ski. He took a deep breath to steel himself, once again thankful that he hadn’t worn any of his training gear to his now long-abandoned lunch. Maybe there was a chance the shop staff wouldn’t recognize him out of uniform, as it were. Not likely, he thought, but maybe.

The door chimes jangled as Chris slowly eased the shop door open, still praying the teenagers who worked here had just taken the job because it paid and not because they actually cared about football. As he entered, the teenager leaning against the front of the counter, dressed in a full Gunners kit, looked up from his phone and froze as he took in Chris. For a moment everything was silent, but the silence was soon broken by the _ch-chk_ sound of a photo being snapped and the furious _click-click-click_ of someone typing on their mobile screen. Great. Because what today needed was a photo of him standing in an Arsenal store holding this damned plastic kitty pool all over the internet. How had he gotten talked into this again? Right, Sonny’s face.

After another silent pause, the teen pushed off the counter and sauntered towards Chris. Stifling a chuckle but not even bothering to smother his grin, the teen greeted him with a sarcastic, “Can I help you…sir?”

Chris wasn’t going to give this kid the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten to him. He just wasn’t. So, he fought back the rising flush of embarrassment and anger, took a deep cleansing breath and smiled at the teen. “Yes, I need an inflatable jet-ski. Maybe…maybe like the one in the window photo?”

The teen nodded, and his face broke into a stupid grin. “Of course, sir. We do carry a wide selection of,” the teen paused and continued with added emphasis, “children’s toys.”

The teen gestured and led Chris over to a display inflatable pool toys, smirking at Chris as he gestured toward a half a dozen or so inflatable jet-skis.

“We’re waiting on an order, sir, so I’m afraid the only one of these that I have available for sale right now is this one here.” The teen pointed toward a box that featured a picture of a red inflatable jet-ski garishly emblazoned with the Arsenal cannon crest on the front.

Chris gave the teen a sidelong glance. “Really? That’s the only one you can sell me?”

The teen’s smirk turned into a full on grin now. “Afraid so, sir.”

Chris let out an exasperated sigh. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the teen readying his phone to take another picture. Chris quickly sidestepped out of the way, then moved back until he was standing next to the teenager. He quickly glanced down and saw the teen’s name tag read “Aaron”.

“Aaron, hey, if you want a selfie with me all you had to do was ask.” Chris said. In one smooth motion Chris put an arm around Aaron, smiled, quickly stretched out his other arm holding the phone, and took a selfie of the two of them.

Aaron, looked horrified as Chris smiled at him. “What’s your Instagram? I’ll tag you.”

“N…no. Come on…”

“Really? I mean. I suppose I don’t have to. If you’ll stop posting sneaky photos of me and sell me that plain black and white toy jet-ski.”

“R…really, I can’t. The…the order.”

Chris stared daggers at the stammering teen, “Listen, all I wanted today was a quiet lunch and as good a cup of coffee you can get in this city. Instead, my day has turned into eleven kinds of shit. So, I’ll tell you what. I will give you,” Chris pulled out his wallet and rifled out some notes, “Two hundred pounds for that generic jet-ski and I will leave this shop. And I will never come back. Sound good?”

Aaron nodded, his eyes wide, as he took the money, and handed Chris the box for the generic black and white inflatable jet-ski.

“Thank you,” Chris said politely and wrestled to get to awkward sized box under his other arm, all while trying to not drop the stupid kiddie pool. Sonny was totally paying him back for this, plus extra for all the weird looks, near car deaths, and general shit he’d had to put up with. He’d hand him a bill for emotional damages. Although, knowing Sonny, he’d laugh it off without even an inkling of what Chris had been through for him.

Once he had his burdens settled, one under each arm, Chris left the store as quickly as he could. It was an awkward struggle to get himself and the two cumbersome items out the door, but he managed. A minute after he stepped back onto the street his phone buzzed. Chris groaned audibly, and made a half-hearted effort to get his phone out of his pocket without putting anything down before giving up and dropping the jet-ski. The time was 15:33, only a few more hours until the party.

  
 

Chris clicked the link in Sonny’s first text, fearing the worst. Sure enough, he found himself staring at an Instagram picture of him awkwardly standing with the Hello Kitty pool just inside the Gunners Floats and Boats entrance with the caption: _Looks like Tottenham FlopSpur @chriseriksen8 knows who really owns North London #WengerOut_

Chris flushed in embarrassment and then annoyance. Just because Sonny’s stupid face could guilt him into running ridiculous errands, that didn’t mean Chris had to be happy about it. This whole afternoon was turning into a disaster. This better be one hell of a party.

  
 

A moment later a return text appeared, making Chris almost feel bad for getting cross with Son. Almost.

  
 

Chris sighed and shook his head. That picture of Sonny holding his head because he shanked a chance was the perfect ‘oh no I screwed up and feel really bad’ response. Good. Maybe he finally understood the hell he was putting Chris through, although Chris doubted it. Still, it was enough that Chris could convince himself to run this one last errand for Sonny. Chris was mad, but making Sonny feel worse wasn’t going to help this situation. Plus, he didn’t want to be the guy that said he’d bring food for the party and then showed up without it. Still, how come Sonny never had a sense of urgency about anything. Three hours wasn’t exactly cutting things close, but it wasn’t all the time in the world either. Especially not as they crept toward peak time for London traffic. Plus, how could Sonny not remember the name of Kevin’s favorite Austrian place? Shouldn’t that be standard best friend knowledge?

Ok.  Who else hung out with Kevin and might know where to get this food for the party? Ben seemed like the best bet. Chris opened his messages and typed Ben’s name into the contact field.

  


While Chris waited for a response, he flagged down another cab. He was going take a cue from Sonny, not worry about the time and head back for his lunch. He told the cabbie the address for Scandinavian Kitchen on Great Titchfield Street and sat back. Thankfully, this cabbie seemed disinclined to conversation and didn’t even give the kiddie pool and blow-up jet-ski a second glance.

Shortly after the cab had left Gunners Floats and Boats behind, Chris felt his phone vibrate.

  


Ugh, _for søren_ , Chris did not have the patience for this after the day he had. It wasn’t Ben’s fault though. Chris rolled his eyes and tried to clarify.

  


Ben’s response came quickly.

  


Chris sent off a quick thank you to Ben. Marylebone was just a couple of blocks down the road from Scandinavian Kitchen. He could be at this Austrian place in fifteen minutes, so if he ate lunch — or, he supposed he may as well call it dinner at this point — quickly he might actually have enough time. Then again, with Saturday afternoon traffic, it might actually take him an hour to get to Enfield. Looked like his coffee and _smorrebrod_ would have to wait until his next day off. Chris was definitely going to overbuy on these Austrian sweets. Nothing like being so hungry you didn’t even care about knowingly making bad food decisions the night before a Derby. He quickly searched for the number to Fischer’s and pressed send. A cheerful voice picked up on the second ring.

“Hello, Fischer’s. Where the Vienna cafe scene is alive and well.”

“Hi. I need some food for a party tonight. Do you have any Top…top…fenn…ockerl?”

“Umm, I think we’ve still got some made. Let me check.”

Chris heard shuffling and the murmur of voices on the other end of the line for a few moments before the cheerful woman came back on the line.

“Yep! Definitely some in stock. We can make some more for you if you need. What time would you be picking them up?”

“Oh.” Chris checked the time. “I’m on my way in now, so I’ll just take whatever you’ve got in stock. I need enough for maybe, twenty or thirty?”

“Chef said we have twenty-five or so left. Shall I hold them all for you?”

“Brilliant, yes please. Thank you. I should be there in ten or so, traffic depending.”

“Sure thing.  Just ask at the counter.”

“Right. Thank you again.”

Chris ended the phone call and gave the driver the address for Fischer’s. At least one of Sonny’s errands seemed like it might not be terrible. He certainly hoped that buying a ridiculous toy from Arsenal super fan bizzaro land was the low point of his day.

The driver pulled up to Fischer’s about twenty minutes of terrible London traffic later, reminding Chris of the many reasons why he did everything in his power to avoid driving. As he got out of the car, Chris asked the driver to wait and ran inside the store. The scents of fresh breads, vinegar, and good coffee filled his nose. Coffee. At least he could get a coffee to go. It likely wouldn’t be as good as the one he’d been hoping to enjoy, but it might be just the thing he needed to redeem this day a bit. He headed for the counter and rang the bell. A moment later a head popped out from the door leading to the back.

“Hello. Can I help you?” It was the same cheerful woman who had answered the phone.

“Yeah. I think we just spoke on the phone. I have some topfennockerl on hold. And, can I also get a coffee to go?”

A smile crossed the woman’s face and she nodded, “Of course. Hold on a minute, I‘ll go get them.”

A few minutes later the woman emerged carrying a large cake box filled with neat rows of spherical pastries and cup of rich smelling coffee. Chris was certain it couldn’t match the complex flavors of a good Danish blend, but the aroma was already doing a job of soothing Chris’s jangled nerves so it was a good bet that he might feel almost human by the time he finished the cup. Good, maybe he would actually be able to enjoy this party. Chris took a sip of the coffee while he waited for the woman to get his change. The Vienna roast was mellow and lacked the bright acidic pops of his favorite Danish coffee, but that first sip seeped into Chris’s veins and melted away some of the tension he’d been carrying all afternoon. Chris smiled and tipped his cup forward to show the woman his appreciation. “This is good,” he said, earning another wide smile from the woman. Gathering his change and pastries, Chris thanked her, and hopped back into the cab to head to Enfield.

Chris settled into the back seat of the cab, secured the box of pastries, and slowly sipped at his coffee. The traffic crawled along the road and Chris felt like the cab was covering metres at a time rather than kilometres. At this rate the bustling London traffic would make the 25 km to Enfield take well over an hour. Chris thought about texting Sonny that he was on his way, but decided instead to just relax and finish his coffee. At least in the cab he could take a few moments to unwind before the inevitable chaos of whatever Sonny had planned that involved a kiddie pool and a jet-ski.

Twenty minutes later Chris had finished his coffee and was feeling almost human again. The low background hum of the cab was punctuated by the low bass of BBC 1 London’s Saturday afternoon’s dance programming. Finally, Chris felt like he had begun to de-stress from the ridiculous series of errands that he had let Sonny guilt him into. Sonny was still getting a bill for all the stuff Chris had paid, plus the embarrassment and emotional trauma, but Chris was pretty sure he could now let it wait until after the Derby tomorrow.

Chris leaned back into the cab and eased his eyes shut, letting himself just breathe for a few minutes before he texted Sonny about Fischer’s.

  


  


Chris smiled a little at the texted photo of Sonny smiling and pointing. At him, if he remembered correctly. Chris was pretty sure he’d passed Sonny the ball that he put away for that goal. Good memories, but he was still cross at Sonny for the trials Sonny had put him through that afternoon. So much for a quiet afternoon in London followed by a relaxing evening at home. Honestly, he should consider not answering his phone anymore. Maybe changing his number. At the very least leaving it at home. Whatever the case, he vowed never to let Sonny use his mastery of charm and saving every photo of himself from the internet to his phone to manipulate him anymore. After today, Chris was starting to suspect that beneath all his childish innocence, Sonny was actually a master of manipulation. Chris closed his eyes again and let himself ruminate on the idea of Son Heung-Min, secret devious mastermind as the cab wound its way closer to Enfield.

A little over an hour later the cab finally pulled up outside of Enfield. Chris nearly emptied his wallet paying the driver, yet another thing he’d put on Sonny’s tab, and then wrangled his packages out of the cab and towards the player entrance. Chris noted a lack of vehicles in the player’s car park, but maybe Sonny had people park somewhere else to make sure everything stayed a surprise. At that moment Chris didn’t really care as he grumbled vague curses at the bulky pool and jet-ski, which kept threatening to crush or upend the delicate pastry box. Thankfully he’d finished the coffee, so he didn’t have the added complication of not spilling something hot down his sleeve on top of the rest of this. Once he managed to wrangle the door open, then prop it open with his back as he half kicked the pool and jet-ski inside, he freed up a hand, pulled out his phone and texted Sonny about where he should go.

  


  


Chris looked at the time and saw it was 17:45. Time enough to hustle to the dressing room and get everything set up with some time to spare. He hoped the others were getting there at 18:00 and not that Kevin was getting there at 18:00. Chris listened closely as he dragged his purchase through the dim and silent hallway. He knew it was a surprise party, but he could count on one hand the number of times more than two of his teammates were together in the dressing room and the shouts and laughter weren’t echoing down the corridors. He paused at the dressing room door and frowned. He didn’t hear a thing. Shouldn’t there at least be some shuffling noises? Was everyone just really late? Did Sonny somehow conveniently forget to tell Chris he’d be doing all the set-up by himself? He changed his mind. He’d start writing up Sonny’s bill the second he relieved himself of this stupid pool.

Chris was scowling as he entered the pitch black dressing room. The automatic lights clicked on as he dropped the toys on the floor, revealing a perfectly empty dressing room stretching out before him. Chris’s scowl deepened and his brows furrowed as he angrily pulled out his phone and stabbed at his phone’s keyboard.

  


  


Chris stared at the text and then scrolled back to his texts from Sonny earlier in the day. He definitely texted the number 5 earlier that afternoon and was now texting the number 1 and the number 5. Chris could feel his face flushing to match the infuriated red emoji in Sonny’s text. What. The. Hell? Had Sonny seriously gotten the date wrong earlier? Had he nearly been killed in a cab, been embarrassed on social media, had to give an Arsenal fan far more money than necessary for a stupid pool toy, and missed his lunch all because Sonny had gotten the goddamn date wrong?

  


Chris was exhausted. He was stressed out. He was angry. And he was still hungry. Chris could feel his eye twitching as he flopped onto the bench and stared at the phone, waiting for Sonny’s response.

  


_For helvede_ , Sonny. Are you serious?” Chris screamed at his phone. He had to stop himself from hurling it across the dressing room. Sonny had cost him enough today. He wasn’t going to let Sonny cost him a phone too. Chris turned off his screen and shoved his phone roughly into his pocket. What the hell had he spent his entire day paying for cab rides to embarrassing situations across London for? Chris had never been this angry at a teammate before. Especially not one as genuinely likeable as Sonny. Chris reached over and flipped open the box, sat down in front of Sonny’s locker, and started digging into the topfennockerl. He no longer cared. He’d paid for these and he was hungry, so he was damn well going to eat them. He would almost certainly regret eating nothing but Austrian pastries for dinner about twenty minutes into the derby tomorrow, but he was beyond caring. By the time he had calmed down a little, Chris realized he had eaten most of the box of the treats. He’d definitely regret this tomorrow. Right now, he still definitely did not care. He smiled wickedly to himself, then stood up and dropped two of sweet dumplings in each of Sonny’s training boots before cramming the pool and jet-ski boxes on top. There, now Sonny would get a fun surprise before training next week.

Chris had made it halfway down the corridor toward the car park before he remembered that he’d taken a taxi here and he’d given the driver the rest of his cash. He could pay credit, of course, but honestly he didn’t fancy another taxi ride for the fifteen kilometres back to his house. He was so exhausted he contemplated sleeping in the players’ lounge for the evening before he remembered he had the Derby away at Arsenal and he’d need to be dressed and at the team bus several hours before that. He sank into one of the many padded chairs and pulled his phone out of his pocket, mentally running through a list of which teammate he could call.

Jan and Toby were his long-time friends and he had no doubt that either one of them would make the drive up to Enfield in a second if he asked, but Jan had a baby at home and deserved a quiet night in and Toby was still battling his injury, which likely meant he was out doing something fun on a Saturday night. Coco was definitely free, but, again, Chris assumed he was out enjoying London nightlife while he could.

Dele was out tomorrow, having twisted his knee clowning around with Eric at practice, which Poch was not happy about. And he did owe Chris more than one favour after the other night. Chris sighed and started to dial Dele’s number, then thought better of it. The last thing he needed after a day like today was to get sucked back into the Dele-Dier drama again. Nope. He’d better leave off and find someone else.

Chris scrolled through the contacts on his phone, trying to think of who might live nearby enough that driving to Enfield and then to Chris’s house wouldn’t be a hardship. After the third time his slow scrolling ended with him stopping at Vincent’s name, Chris put the phone down and closed his eyes. Vincent didn’t exactly live nearby and, really, Chris knew his motives for calling Vince weren’t entirely altruistic, but, again, his day had been shit and he honestly just needed to lose himself in Vincent’s company for the half hour it would take him to get home. He lifted his phone and dialed before he could stop himself.

The phone rang and rang, and Chris was just preparing to hang up on Vincent’s voice mail when the familiar voice answered, sounding slightly out of breath. “Chris? What’s up? Sorry, I was just getting out of the bath.”

Chris felt his breath hitch involuntarily, but he tried to keep his voice steady as he sank farther into his chair. “Vince. Hi. I…Listen, I’ve had the most shit of shit days and I was hoping you could do me a favour.”


	7. ...and one time he didn't (Harry Kane)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team blew a lead to Chelsea, Chris is done with other people's problems, and Harry is the incidental cause of most of those problems anyway. 
> 
>  
> 
> _I need a break from playing team trainer and travel adviser and personal shopper and psychologist and errand boy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after the 26 November, 2016 match away to Chelsea.

 

  
Cover art by: [ItsADrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit)

**Read by** : [ItsADrizzit, ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit) and [annapods](http://archiveofourown.org/users/annapods/pseuds/annapods)

**Length** : 00:08:16

**Right click and save as:**  
[mp3 w/ music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/6_HKane_Music.mp3) | [mp3 w/o music](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/6_HKane_NoMusic.mp3)

streaming with music 

streaming without music 

Chris wanted nothing more than to collapse into the nearest bed and not move for days as he climbed off the team coach and headed toward his car. The match against Chelsea had been grueling and the loss had stung even more than most. Three much needed points slipped away after Chelsea scored twice following Chris’s goal in the eleventh minute and the team wasn’t able to find the net and at least eke out a draw.

As Chris unlocked his door and was about to settle his bags into the back, he heard a voice calling his name and looked up to see Harry jogging toward him.

“Chris, mate. Hold up a minute.”

Chris honestly thought about pretending he hadn’t heard Harry, climbing in his car, and driving away, but the other man had made him pause just long enough that his long strides had carried him too close to Chris’s car for that to work.

“Harry.” Chris said, his voice flat. This might be a perfectly innocent conversation, but with the way Chris’s Spurs life had been going lately he doubted very much that would be his luck.

Harry had reached him now and pulled to a stop just beside Chris.

“Hey, Mate, sorry to keep you. I was wondering if I could ask you a favor.”

Chris stared at him for a few moments, chewing on his lip as he thought. Again, this could be perfectly innocent. He knew he should hear Harry out and then make a decision, but if he’d learned anything over the past few months — especially after his ordeal with Sonny three weeks prior — it was that blind agreement to help out his teammates tended to put him into situations he ended up regretting later. Plus, Harry was most of the reason he’d had to mediate what he was coming to think of as the great Dele-Dier crisis of 2016/2017, so he had to admit he was harbouring more than a little resentment toward the man, whether that was fair or not.

No, Chris decided. He wasn’t in the mood. Whatever Harry’s problem was, he could damn well find someone else to solve it for him.

Chris pulled his car door open and dropped his boot bag on the passenger seat before sitting down. “Sorry. No.”

Harry cocked his head at Chris and raised his eyebrows. “What?”

Chris shrugged. “No. No favours. Not right now.”

Again, Harry started to protest, but Chris cut him off. “Listen, I don’t know what this thing is you need help with and, honestly, I don’t care. I need a break from playing team trainer and travel adviser and personal shopper and psychologist and errand boy. I hope you find someone who can help you sort this out, but right now, it’s not going to be me. Sorry. I generally like helping you all out. But I feel like I’ve been put through the ringer for the past two months and I just need to take a step back and deal with my own life for a bit, okay?”

He started to close the door, but stopped just short. He didn’t begrudge Harry a request for a favour and he definitely wasn’t rude enough to slam a door in a teammate’s face.

Harry stood beside his car, staring at him, mouth slightly agape for a few minutes, until he suddenly regained his composure, straightened up, and shrugged. “Yeah…uhh…sure. No worries, mate. I was just wanting to know if you’d be willing to stay late after training next week and work a bit more on our link up play, but…it sounds like you need a break. I’ll…see if Sonny is free.” He turned to head to his own car, then stopped and turned back to Chris with a look of polite concern. “Hey. Uhh…take care of yourself, okay?” He flashed Chris one of his winning smiles then turned and walked away.

Chris sank back against the seat. _Link-up play_. For once a request for perfectly reasonable on-field help and Chris had dismissed it out of hand like a complete wanker.

He closed his eyes, sighed, then started his car, turned the stereo up louder, and tried to come to terms with that during the long drive down the A10.


End file.
